Among animal music-lovers this chapter does not embrace those natural musicians, the crickets, grasshoppers, locusts, frogs, and birds, whose love-songs form such a large part of the æsthetic in nature; yet the instance I am about to relate cannot be omitted, for it clearly indicates a love for musical sounds other than those produced by the creature itself or its mates.
A gentleman,[61] formerly living in the country, but now an attorney-at-law and residing in the town in which I live, told me that, on one occasion, he succeeded in raising two quails from eggs placed beneath a brooding barnyard fowl. These birds grew to maturity, and, what is rare indeed, became so exceedingly tame that they ran about the house and yard with the utmost freedom, showing not the slightest fear, and, seemingly, taking the greatest pleasure in the caresses bestowed upon them by the children of the household. This gentleman comes of a musical family, and, on pleasant summer nights, he and his sisters and brothers were in the habit of going to the stiles some distance away from the house and there singing and playing on the guitar and violin for several hours. The quails roosted on a dresser in the kitchen, but, as soon as the music began, they left their roost and flew to the stiles no matter how late in the night it might be, and there they would stay, perched on the shoulders of the musicians, until the concert was over; they would then go back to roost. They seemed to be passionately fond of the singing voice, and would seek out a singer wherever he or she might be, whenever they heard the sound of singing. In timbre the human female voice is more nearly akin to that of the quail than to that of any other animal. When a lad, "before my voice changed," I could call up these birds at will by giving their various calls; I did not whistle the songs; I sang them. The peculiar quality of the female voice referred to above may be considered by some to have been the cause that influenced these birds; yet my informant distinctly states that the voice of an adult male equally attracted them.
The opening movement of Chopin's Marche Funébre affects me very disagreeably. The music is, to me, absolutely repugnant. The beautiful melody in the second movement is, however, to me exceedingly agreeable and affords me intense pleasure and gratification. The lower animals are likewise agreeably or disagreeably affected by certain musical sounds. Close observation has taught me the fact that certain musical keys are more agreeable to dogs than others. If a composition in a certain key, the fundamental note of which is agreeable to a dog, be played, he will either listen quietly and intently to the sounds, or will, sometimes, utter low and not unmusical howls in accord or "in tune" with the fundamental note. If the music be in a key not pleasing to him, he will either show absolute indifference, or will express his dissatisfaction with discordant yelps not in accord with the fundamental note of the key.
The bell of a certain church in my town sounds G. A collie, which lives next door to the church, when the bell is rung, never fails to express his delight in the sound. He listens intently while the bell is ringing, occasionally giving utterance to low howls, the notes being either B♭, E♭, or some other note in accord with G. This dog visits a house next door to another church, the bell of which sounds F. He never shows the slightest interest when this bell is rung. When I play compositions in F♯, an English fox-terrier of mine will lie on the floor and listen for an hour at a time. If I change to the key of E♭, B♭, or G, he will soon leave the room.
A question naturally obtrudes itself here in the matter of the dog which barks in accord with the church-bell. Does he do this knowingly (consciously), or is it simply an accident? I believe the former, and consider it the result of an acquired psychical habitude.
That the dog is conscious (self-conscious) that his voice is in accord with the bell, I will not venture to assert, for, knowledge on this point, I take it, is beyond the power of man to acquire. I mean by the word, "knowingly," when I say that the dog knowingly pitches his voice in accord with the bell, not that he has any knowledge whatever of harmony, such as an educated musician possesses, or such even as the inherited experiences of a thousand years of music-loving ancestors would naturally impress upon the mind of a civilized European of to-day, but that he has an acquired imitative faculty (a faculty possessed by some of the negroes of Central Africa as well as by many other savage races), of attuning his voice to sounds which are pleasing to his ears. In support of this proposition I instance the fact of the dog's acquired habit of barking, which has been developed since his domestication. In his wild state the dog never barks.
Man himself has done much toward arousing and cultivating the imitative faculty in the dog (which, in the beginning, impelled this highly developed animal to answer his master, thus originating the first vocables—barking—in the canine language), by conversing with him. In all probability, it is only an "anatomical barrier and a psychical accident" at best, which prevent the dog from addressing his master through the agency of speech itself!
The dog's voice is exceedingly pleasing to himself, and, most frequently, when "baying the moon," he is listening to his own singing, not (as is generally supposed) as it pours forth from his throat, but in a more pleasing manner, as it is breathed back to his listening ears from the airy lips of Echo!
That dogs have discovered that pleasing phenomenon, the echo, I do not question for a single instant. If a dog which is in the habit of "baying the moon" be watched, it will be observed that he invariably selects the same spot or spots for his nocturnal concerts. If you happen to be standing in the neighborhood, you will also notice that there is always an echo, more or less distinct, of his barking; and, if you will observe closely, you will see that the dog listens for this echo, and that he will not resume his song until it (the echo) has entirely ceased. That this is the true explanation of "baying the moon" (where there is not another dog in the distance whose clamorous barkings have aroused a like performance on the part of the animal under observation), the following instance, coming under my own observation, would seem to indicate.
I had frequently noticed that a spaniel crept under a honeysuckle bush in my front yard whenever he gave one of his serenades. Time and again I tried to hear the echo, but in vain, and an almost verified fact seemed in danger of total annihilation. Finally, it occurred to me to dispossess the dog and take his place beneath the bush. I called him out and succeeded with much difficulty in getting beneath the bush, from whence I, imitating his voice, sent several howling barks. My theory was no longer merely theory, but was, instead, a verified fact, for, sharp, clear, and distinct, the echoes of my voice came back from some buildings an eighth of a mile away! Some peculiar acoustic environment made it impossible to get the echo at any place, as far as I could discover, other than beneath the bush.[62]