EULOGY ON AMPERE. 119 



and pro[)afi:atod ; the difi'erent vibrations of a stretched cord 5 the 

 curious periodic changes of intensity, designated as beats, &c. But 

 music, properly so-called, was to hiin a sealed book. 



The day finally came, boAvever, when certain combinations of sounds 

 were to Ampere something more than mathematical problems — some- 

 thing more than the monotonous tinkling of bells. 



In the thii'tieth year of his age he accompanied some friends to a con- 

 cert on one occasion, where, in the beginning, the scientific, animated, 

 and expressive music of Gliick was alone performed. The discomfort 

 of Ampere was apparent to all; he yawned, twisted himself, arose, 

 walked about, halted, walked again, without aim or end. From time to 

 time (and this with him was the last stage of nervous impatience) he 

 would place himself in one of the corners of the room, turning his back 

 on the whole assembly. Finally, ennui, that terrible enemy our acade- 

 mician had never learned to control, from not having been, as he said, 

 at school in his childhood, seemed to ooze from every pore. Now, the 

 scientific music of the celebrated German composer was succeeded un- 

 expectedly by some sweet, simple melodies; and our associate suddenly 

 felt himself transported into a new world, antl his emotions betrayed 

 themselves again by copious tears ; the chord uniting the ear and heart 

 of Ampere was struck, and made for the first time to vibrate in unison. 



Time made no change in this peculiar taste. During his whole life 

 Ampere showed the same fondness for simple, unaffected songs; the 

 same distaste for scientific, noisy, labored music. Can it be true that 

 in the beautiful art of such masters as Mozart, Cherubini, Berton, 

 Auber, Eossini, and Meyerbeer there are no fixed rules by which to 

 distinguish the very good from the very bad ; the beautiful from the 

 hideous*? At all events, may the example of the learned academician 

 render us indulgent to the champions of the ruthless war between the 

 Gluckists and Piecinists witnessed by our fathers ; and may it induce us 

 to pardon the famous mot of Fontenelle, ^^iSonatc, que me veux tti V — 

 ("Sonata, what have you to do with me F) As we have just seen, Ampere 

 was almost blind to one of the fine arts until eighteen, and almost deaf 

 to ahother until thirty. It was during this interval — that is, when about 

 twenty-one — that his heart suddenly opened to a new passion, that of love. 

 Ampere, who wrote so little, has left some papers, entitled J. .'>< or »»?, 

 to which he confided, day by day, the touching, artless, and truly beau- 

 tiful history of his feelings. The first page begins thus; "One day 



while strolling, after sunset, along the banks of a solitary stream," 



The phrase remains unfinished. I will finish it with the aid of the 

 memory of some of the early friends of the learned academician. 



The day was the 10th of August, 1796. 



The solitary stream was not far from the little village of Saint Ger- 

 main, a short distance from Poleymieux. 



Ampere was botanizing. His eyes, in perfect condition to see since 

 the adventure on the barge of the Saone, were not now so exclusively 



