Cecil Henry Bullivant

It has been asserted that the noun “bunkum” is first cousin to the verb “to bunk.” If so, the dealer in bunkumisms disdains the connection until matters grow too hot for him at the end of a performance, when, as a last resource, he hugs his relative gladly. Cupboard affection this, and in order to shelter himself from the righteous wrath of the audience, achieves a flying bunk from the platform.

The word “bunkum” is interesting. It is defined in the dictionary as “speech spoken merely to please one’s supporters or constituents and secure their votes—mere talk.” It originates from “Buncombe, a district in North Carolina, with a constituency, to please whom a member of theirs once boasted he made a speech in Congress.”

Bunkum covers a wider field than science, woman’s suffrage, or politics. It is an autocrat that stands aloof, and demands the gentle hearts of greenhorn and sage alike for its sacrificial fires. It endeavors to prove that the age of miracles has not been choked out of existence beneath the widespread fingers of civilization, or how could an orange be transformed before our eyes into a cauliflower, an egg into a peeled potato ?

The bunkum entertainer molds the brains of the most iron-headed cynic into putty, and transforms the scoffing jeers of the know-all schoolboy into humble admiration. He is a quack sorcerer, and, even while we designate him as such, we are obliged to own that his art is steeped in deepest mystery.

The bunkum entertainer is a parasite, a cartoonist, and mimic, a smooth-tongued, unscrupulous rascal, who deserves—the conscientious entertainer (who never tries bunkum because he is too stupid and wool-headed) so has it—to be banished to a desert island and served to cannibals as minced donkey flesh “À la bunkum.” He is the sort of man who borrows five pound notes, gold watches, and diamond rings from his audience, and forgets to return them. He cheats, deludes, patters, lies by the yard, swallows enough solid materials to furnish a warehouse, and give an ostrich indigestion.

He is tough and brazen, and cheaply cynical at the expense of the authentic conjurer, juggler, phrenologist, ventriloquist, seer, and spiritualist. He is the cuckoo of society. He concocts a potpourri of brains and wit, and offers it as his own; and yet, in spite of it all, how fascinating and overwhelming is his personality. He is the fool of the world—the jester who prances about in cap and bells, who causes our sides to ache in our futile effort to keep our risibilities decorously pitched. Never did a folly play pitch and toss with the pedantic phrases of solemn courtiers, kings and prelates, as ably and irreverently as this monster incarnate with the five senses of mankind.

He is wrapped in mystery. We regard him with awe and wonder: the curtains, the table, the walls, the footlights are his faithful agents. We gaze at the rabbit popping up from his hat, the watch flicked through a pistol barrel to the wall, the inane jack of diamonds darting from his mouth to the back of his coat, in trembling amazement of his cunning. We whisper to our beating hearts, “Can such things be?” At that instant he throws aside the cloak of secrecy, and shows us his glaring infidelity. He has not, as we supposed, ruptured and mastered every law of gravitation and nature. He has simply been dealing in the art of “bunkum,” and, when he reveals his methods to us, as he never fails to do in a continuous prattle of artless confidence, we see—or we think we see—that it is all child’s play and foolish absurdity.

The rabbit has not been suddenly created, full-grown, in the crown of his immaculate silk hat. It owes its mild behavior to constant discipline, its sleek coat to cabbage leaves. Like Topsy—like all other bipeds, quadrupeds and aquatic creatures—it has simply “growed.” Its cage is behind the stage, to which it will presently be spirited away, to rest in peace after its labors.

When we discover this we become very wide-awake, very “cute.” We will see through the next trick or perish in the attempt. Alas! alas! for our righteous determination; once again we are deluded and snared. The table performs a giddy reel, the watch of the confiding benign bald-headed gentleman in the corner is shattered before our eyes, and with a thrill of horror we strain our necks to gaze in his direction in order to witness the anticipated apoplectic seizure.

The gentleman, however, remains stolidly non-committal. My young schoolboy eyes observe a whitening of the gills, a compression of the lower jaw that bodes ill for the entertainer if he does not make good the loss; and a few minutes after he is bidden of the smiling performer to look in his pocket, and, lo and behold! the monogrammed watch, which we are ready to swear we saw him pass to the platform, dangles safely from the end of the chain spanning his stomach. The shattered timepiece, we are told glibly, was only a base imitation in tin and glass.

But how, where, in what manner? queries my boyish soul, steeped in perplexity; and, by-and-by, the monster answers all these questions as if he read that inner inquisitive voice so satisfactorily that I go home and try the trick before an admiring circle of friends, borrowing my maiden aunt’s watch for the purpose, she being quite unaware that I have its threepenny duplicate in my pocket.

Sure of Success

I am sure of success. I imitate the performer’s patronizing complacency perfectly. I smile and sneer politely with all his evil suavity, and then I fire my pistol, shatter the glass of the threepenny, and my aunt rises from her chair with a piercing shriek.

“Tom, you little wretch, what have you done?”

With an airy smile I bid her be calm, and from the rear part of my person produce with a deft movement her precious belonging.

“Your watch, madam,” I say, with all the superior pleasantry of the “bunkum” performer.

Then the smile freezes on my face, the timepiece feels strangely light in my clammy hand. I gaze at it in horror. My eyeballs distend, my heart swings backwards and forwards between my ribs. I have bungled! The good watch is shattered beyond hope of redemption. The disc of paper and glass cowers up at me, its hands stretched confusedly across its impudent face.

Disgrace and ignominy descend swiftly upon me. My maiden aunt prepares to leave the house, declaring she will never enter it again. My parents, who expect great things at her demise, beseech her forgiveness in vain. I am banished from the firelit circle to my own room, up to which a step presently approaches, striding away from the disorder and hysterics downstairs. My father enters with a long slender implement behind his back—an implement which, from former experience, I know portends woe terrific.

I draw the curtain—I am chastised and broken in body and spirit. For a whole week I keep severely aloof from the awful bunkum tyrant, and then, alas! I am drawn again to the hall, where he is performing as remorselessly as the silly fly is drawn to enmesh himself in the spider’s web.

The next time I played a trick on my family I took good care it should be of a kind that would do no one—not even the most hypersensitive individual—any harm. Needless to say, my aunt was not of the circle.

Thought-Reading Extraordinary

I told them briefly and airily that I was now about to exhibit my wonderful skill in thought-reading. Perhaps I should add that my sister Jane, who adores me, was chosen as my confederate. Bidding them fix on a number, which I would at once discover by the simple means of placing my fingers on their temples, I withdrew with a bland smile into the passage.

When I returned they giggled a little, and one twelve-year-old cynic of the opposite sex piped out scornfully—

“You’ll never guess it, Tom. You can’t possibly—so there.”

This maiden, often a thorn in my flesh, I silenced with a severe frown.

“If you please, I must request the audience to be perfectly silent, to concentrate their minds—those of you who possess them——” I paused to scowl at my pink-and-white torment—“concentrate them absolutely on the chosen number. I am not going to guess it. I am going to discover it by means of thought transference, and, as the strain is very great, I must ask you to be perfectly silent.”

“It’s like having our photo taken,” whispered the torment, but some one bumped her ribs, and she was reluctantly silent.

Solemnly, slowly, I moved round the circle. With drawn brows and narrowed eyes I placed my fingers lightly on the temples of my father, mother, uncle, and friends in succession, and then I reached Jane. She set her teeth just as I had shown her, and I felt the muscles at her temples work steadily. Having counted ten vibrations, I went on stolidly to the other heads until the circle was completed. Then, standing before them, I wiped the imaginary sweat of fatigue from my brow. The torment looked radiant.

“You don’t know it? There—I said so, Tom, you goose.”

“Madam,” I returned with a bow, “the digit fixed upon was ten!”

Tableau vivant! The complete confusion of the torment, the most guileless “bravo” from Jane, and my uncle’s audible whisper to my proud parents.

“The boy’s a positive genius!”

“And he looks quite white and tired,” quoth mamma.

Result—the promise of a ripping new bicycle from grandpa as a reward for my merit.

I owed a lot to Jane, who remained my faithful unsuspected confederate in many other tricks, which gained me a reputation of being something of an extraordinary phenomenon and possessed of embryo genius. It was delightful to enjoy the giddy pinnacle of fame to which my female relations raised me.

Another trick that caused much sensation was the following, and, for any youth who wishes to follow in the footsteps of the great (which I think some old poet chap—who had never studied the art of bunkum—remarked are written “on the sands of Time,”) I will state clearly the manner in which it was done.

Place three corks on the table, and tell your wondering home circle that, while you withdraw, they may touch one of them, and you will tell them which cork they touched. Your confederate must classify them as top, middle, and bottom.

When you return, do not look at her fixedly, but just once through the tail of your eye. If you observe her brush her hair carelessly from her forehead, you may safely conclude that the top cork is the one that has been touched. If she picks an imaginary speck from her nose or blows it, it is the middle cork. If she scratches her chin pensively, it is the bottom cork. She must take care not to prolong the process, and you must see at once (without appearing to do so) the hint conveyed.

Fake Ventriloquism

By-and-by, delighted with my many successes, I studied and exhibited the difficult art of ventriloquism. Jane and I, after long saving of pocket-money and hoarding of occasional tips—bestowed by kindly relatives, susceptible to hints—succeeded in purchasing a dilapidated doll from a second-hand dealer, and, mastering the anatomy of its joints, produced it, seated in the place of honor in front of a curtained receptacle in which Hyde, our servant, was cramped with a mouth organ, glass of water, straw and other apparatus, carefully schooled beforehand as to cues and the order of utensils to be used. Or in place of a lay figure, another boy seated in the chair, and appropriately dressed, can act as dummy (Fig. 1).

The bunkum ventriloquist must insert his hand in the hole at the back of the dummy, so that he can move his head and limbs as desired. He must also convey the appearance of throwing his voice outward from his chest, boots or stomach, without opening his lips except when addressing the dummy.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said I very grandly, “I am about to exhibit to you some marvelous feats to illustrate faithfully the psychological force which mind exerts over matter. This gentleman has spent thousands of years in an African tomb. He was buried on his face, and that accounts for his battered nose, while it typifies the greatness of the position he occupied in 15 B.C., when it was the custom to put corpses of royal blood with their features compressed against the bottom of their coffins. You would much prefer to hear his story from his own lips, and this he will now relate at my persuasion:—

“Androde!”

Hyde (in a far away husky voice): “Noble lord.”

“The audience here wish to know something of your experiences previous to your long confinement in the willy waily tomb on the Timbuctoo plains.”

(Hyde bubbles the water through the straw.)

“He’s overcome with emotion. These are tears trickling through the floodgates.” (Produce handkerchief and wipe them away.)

“There, there, old chappie, don’t cry.”

Hyde (huskily): “When I think of the sand and the worms, I can’t help it.”

“Don’t think about them. Tell us about the Palace MahomÉ in which you lived.”

Hyde: “It was very beautiful—flowers, fountains, fruit, and baccy as much as I could consoom.”

Hyde’s pronunciation is somewhat faulty, but I excuse this by saying that poor Androde has not sufficient air in his sand-choked lungs to pronounce clearly.

Fig. 1.—Fake ventriloquism.

“And there were birds, were there not?”

Hyde (sadly): “The air was thick with them, noble lord.”

“Can you recall the note of the Timbuctoo owl?”

(Figure lost in pondering. Head bent, hand raised to temple in Shakespearean attitude; lifts his face, mouth opened in a wide grin.)

Hyde: “It all comes back.”

“Give us a specimen of the owl.”

(Pause. Dummy thinks hard, and Hyde blows mouthpiece. I then call upon him to imitate the Timbuctoo lion, and Hyde growls through a glass chimney, swayed backwards and forwards, and renders excellent imitation.)

I need not narrate our further conversation. The young bunkum entertainer can concoct something probably far more idiotic himself. He may dish up puns, tell funny tales, ask riddles, &c., and, so long as his patter is bright, amusing, and illustrated by as many funny jerks and head-turnings of his dummy as he can squeeze into the entertainment, he will keep a house party amused for a considerable time.

My figure is not always posed as an unearthed royal mummy from the plains of Timbuctoo. Sometimes I dress him as a coster-boy, chimney-sweep, or gentleman in evening dress. Not infrequently he appears as a clown in tight linen skull-cap and red stockings; and a quick change into my mother’s old dress, renovated by Jane, transforms him from an awkward-limbed hoyden to a demure old lady.

This dressing need not cost the performer anything. He has only to unearth a linen bag, containing remnants and articles of outgrown clothing, to work the miracle. A dummy should have as many different costumes as Queen Elizabeth. They will all come in handy, and add novelty to the entertainment.

If the cost of procuring a dummy is beyond the performer’s purse—as it was beyond mine for quite a considerable time—he may engage a confederate to walk, behave, and talk automatically, conceal his face in mask and wig, and render a clever and ludicrous performance. This, however, needs considerable rehearsing and care.

The Three Old Maids

An item that makes for novelty and change in an evening’s performance is the following:—

Secure three young girls—I don’t mean kidnap them, but use your masculine powers of persuasion. (I find the majority of women folk need little when it’s a matter of dressing up and showing off to hilarious friends.) This is a digression.

Each damsel must have an old woman’s mask, the uglier the better, secured at the back of her head by means of elastics, which are easily hidden by her hair. She must wear a long skirt that conceals her feet, the back part of it covered by a small apron.

Her hands, in mittens, should be clasped behind her over a stick. To hide the edge of the mask, some fluffy headgear is essential, such as a lace fascinator with a rose or two fixed at the side, which is folded crosswise over the back of her shoulders and frames the mask.

Place the three behind a curtain. When all is ready—and the performers should take care to stand perfectly still, for fear of disclosing the masked profiles at the back of their heads—the curtain is drawn, and they sing to a pianoforte accompaniment a verse of “We are three young maids of Lee.”

The onlookers will probably designate this “pretty, but rather tame.” This is where the fun comes in, for no one is prepared for the grand finale. At the end of the verse the maidens step backwards in a row and retire behind the curtain, or turn round with their masks to the audience, their heads thrown well over the hands holding the sticks (Fig. 2). When they are ready the curtain is again drawn, and, amid shrieks of merriment, the last verse is sung by voices as cracked, discordant, and out of tune as possible—“We are three old maids of Lee.” The hands and heads should quiver with old age, the figures be bowed over the sticks. The result is ludicrous to a degree, and never fails to delight the unprepared audience.

I once saw an old dowager duchess, severe in full consciousness of war-paint and feathers, nearly burst the diamond snap of her necklace with laughing at the absurdity of the spectacle presented. Its great advantage is that it is cheap and easy, and can be performed without any rehearsing, by inviting three girls from the audience and spending a few minutes in instructions behind the scenes.

If you do not know them well enough to presume so far upon their good-nature, call up three chums of your own sex, array them in feminine apparel, and the result is even more ludicrous, if more expensive, for in this case you will require wigs to hide their cropped heads for the first verse, and dressing them will need more time.

Bunkum Lectures

I have frequently amused my long-suffering friends and relatives by Bunkum Lectures. For example, one on Toe and Cornology, quite an original science, gives scope for the most idiotic remarks on the characteristic traits portrayed by toes.

For my lecture I have an easel, covered with a block of thin paper perforated at the top, so that the sheets are easily torn off. On these I rapidly sketch in turn different types of toes in chalk.

If the entertainer is unable to draw, he can probably persuade an artist friend to sketch the members required beforehand. In this case the sheets need not be perforated, but simply thrown over the top of the easel as he exhibits the different drawings. An easel is soon constructed, and can be made at home out of soap boxes by the amateur carpenter; or the block of paper may be placed on a music-stand.

I begin my lecture by a short treatise on toes. I show diagrams of (1) the President’s toe, (2) the prelate’s toe, (3) the courtier’s toe, (4) the tyrant’s toe, (5) the toady’s toe, (6) the artisan’s toe, (7) the neurotic toe, (8) the spiteful toe, (9) the cringing toe, (10) the poetic toe, (11) the melancholy toe, (12) the absurd toe, (13) the philanthropic toe, (14) the corn-riddled toe. Here I try to be witty, and remark that some people of an original turn of mind wear their corns on their noses instead of inside their boots.

“The corn is precious—we all need corn; we make a great to-do when our corn is oppressed by taxes, for we cherish it. There is nothing—not even his wife or twin babes—so dear to the heart and necessary to the well-being of man as corn. Corn means bread. Bread is the staff of life. The man with corn (a corn) is grateful for the prop of the staff, so that to have a corn sprouting on your big toe should be no hardship.

“It is a convenience. It is tinned for consumption in your boot, out of reach of Tariff Reformers and Free Traders. It is your own private property. Sometimes it is trodden on maliciously, but it does not vanish on that account. There is something obstinate and bull-necked about the corn—the more it is trodden on the more it asserts itself. It is a hot-house plant. It needs a cover of wool, a roof of boot leather. Under these conditions it thrives like the baby fed on Mellin’s food.

“I can’t understand the fuss the unemployed make. Why should they, when they have such a treasure hidden in their boots? So long as a citizen possesses this luxury he is an independent man. What does he want with foreign corn? Ah, my friends, we have not yet reached the full realization of the tremendous privileges we inherit. The corn may not yet be ripe for cutting, but every day, every hour, sees it nearer that perfection which rejoices the heart of humanity.

“See how beneficent nature has become during the last centuries. The bootless, prehistoric savage had to plant and reap his corn in the barren fields, while we are provided gratis with an abundant supply that is likely to last some of us a lifetime.

“There are, of course, some individuals who have barren, cornless toes, although I am glad to say they are in a very small minority. I have taken pains to secure a correct census of the corn-sprouts that have appeared during the last year, and I find on an average that only 5 per cent. are ignorant of this blessing.

“The uses of a corn crop are too numerous to mention. Its chief function is its use as a barometer. The man setting out with his wife and children to spend a day at the seaside should, before starting on the excursion, consult his booted friend. If it admonishes him severely he should not ignore its voice. Woe betide him if he does! It is less disastrous for him to drown his conscience than shut his heart against the promptings of his corn.

“Should he do so, and act upon his determination to spend a long day on the sands, anticipating a pleasurable bask in the sunshine, dire catastrophe will befall him. Rain descends in bucketfuls upon him, his patient wife, and wailing progeny. They return to town drenched to the skin, and are all laid up with chills, which means a week’s absence from the office—perhaps dismissal by his employer, if he is a clerk, and a long doctor’s bill at the end of the month; and who is to blame? Had the man obeyed the mandates of the faithful vegetable protuberance on his big toe all would have been well.

“The only individual I am inclined to respect and admire is the man who cultivates and is led by his corn in all the important affairs of life. To be without the ripening corn is to miss the greater part of the meaning and poignancy of existence. The possession of this treasure causes a man to thread his way gingerly and tactfully through the city streets. He never blunders or bungles; he is a sensitive, considerate person, who unconsciously avoids treading upon or coveting the abundant crops of others. His corn’s influence is more beneficial than freemasonry or foreign missions.

“To gain the sympathies and interest of a fellow-being when you are in trouble and want his financial aid, don’t plunge into your story at once, but approach him gently with the kindly query, ‘Have you a corn?’ If he replies in the affirmative, you may safely intrust him with your difficulties. If, on the contrary, he negatives your question, recognize at once that he is a man of dormant sympathies, and don’t waste further time upon him. It will be useless. He is a cornless individual, therefore heartless.”

I wind up my discourse with some such remark as this—

“Ladies and gentlemen, turn away from the pernicious tyrants who seek to rob you of your birthright in advertising corn salves and plasters. They are wolves in sheep’s clothing. They are jealous and embittered by the barrenness of their toe pastures which, do what they will, yield no corn.”

The Sharp(?)-Shooter

After this, in order to secure the forgiveness of my hearers for my opinions and oratory, both pure bunkum, I bring a trick to their notice, which I work with Hyde, and of which I am rather proud, because it is quite original and works awfully well, in spite of the fact that it’s as simple as the alphabet. For those who would like to try it, here it is:—

Hyde, hidden behind me, is armed with a paper bag inflated with air. Beforehand I place a used bullet on the floor at the spot at which I intend aiming my pistol.

I employ some patter to remove the growing alarm of my family, and the anxiety expressed for themselves, the furniture, and lastly—my own person.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say with self-complacency extreme, “I am about to perform a feat with my hands”—(joke—pause—a flutter of laughter). “Thank you,” I say with a polite bow—“the like of which has never been seen—since the making of the world. I will load and fire this revolver, and the bullet will not only make no mark, but there will not even be a flash or smoke. You will hear the sound of the explosion, and I will show you the bullet discharged.

“So that you may see that there is no bunkum in this marvelous achievement, I will hand you the bullet before I place it in the barrel and immediately after I have fired it.” (Here I pass round unused bullet. I then place it in full view of the audience in the barrel.)

I retire to the curtain immediately in front of Hyde, and take aim above the spot where the spent bullet lies. Count aloud “One, two, three!” At three I pretend to pull the trigger, and Hyde brings his hand forcibly on the paper bag, which causes my audience to bounce in their chairs.

Then I cross the platform, stoop, pick up the used bullet, hand it round for inspection, and retire modestly, overcome with glory.

The Ghost

Occasionally I work a ghost in the following way. After some patter, in which I inform the onlookers that I am about to conjure up the shade of some famous character, I extinguish the lights, and withdrawing to a corner of the room, enfold myself in a long black mackintosh or coat that shrouds my head and figure completely.

I strike a match behind the curtain, and, when I have a good spark that will last a few seconds, blow out the flame, and hold the end of the match between my teeth, so that my mouth is lit up (Fig. 3). My lips are drawn in a fiendish grin, and I strike an attitude, accompanied by inhuman moans and drum-beating from Hyde.

When the spark dies, I hide the black garment behind the curtain, and assume the position I occupied before the appearance of the ghost.

Hyde switches on the light, and my shivering onlookers have no key to the riddle.

The apparatus employed by the bunkum entertainer and the cost it entails depend largely upon his own ingenuity. Most of the articles I employ are of my own manufacture. My wigs do not hail from a wig-maker’s, but from the lumber room at the top of our house, where Jane and I shred disused rope, fix it by means of gum or stitches on to pieces of stiff book-muslin, shaped so as to fit the head. If other colors, such as black and red, are required, we resort to aniline dyes, and the result is much satisfaction to ourselves.