The Ancient Greeks had some ideas that have not, to say the least, held up well over the centuries. One of their strangest was “eggastimuthos.” That’s the belief that the sounds from someone’s belly (as they digest a meal, for example) could both mean something and be coming from “somewhere else.” Specifically, they could be the voices of the dead (and they didn’t mean the food), or even worse, the voices of demons or other supernatural undesirables.
The Romans picked this idea up from the Greeks (or possibly thought of it all on their own but wouldn’t admit it). And in later centuries, even though European civilization conveniently forgot everything the Romans knew about road building and indoor plumbing, the screwball notion that what Winnie-the-Pooh called a “rumbly in his tumbly” meant something probably sinister stayed in play. By the 1600s the practice was called “gastromancy,” and it had morphed a bit. By that time there were practioners called “gastromancers” who put themselves forth as psychics who could tell the future from listening to your abdomen. For a fee, naturally. It’s always “for a fee” with guys like that.
Anyway, there was another word for “gastromancy:” “ventriloquism.” Yes, a “gastromancer” was also called a “ventriloquist.” Now, it’s not recorded whether what we think of as ventriloquism was in their bag of tricks, but it might make sense, right? If somebody claims to hear the voice of your dear departed ancestor in a sort of a rumbling sound, your first reply would very likely be “speak up, Pappy, only this con artist can hear what you’re saying!” And then if a much clearer message were to emerge, well, I wouldn’t be surprised if Pappy’s instructions included “give the con artist a big tip!”
“Ventriloquism” is from the Latin “venter” (belly) and “loqui” (speak”), so it literally means “speaking from the belly”. By the late 1800s ventriloquism had moved out of the realm of spiritualism (possibly propelled by the fade in popularity for spiritualism in general). With no place else to go, ventriloquists took to the stage, and a standard part of vaudeville acts became the ventriloquist and his doll, or dummy. And the word “ventriloquist” shifted to mean what it means today; “throwing your voice,” in reference to the illusion that the performer’s voice is emanating from somewhere besides his throat.
Both ancient and modern ventriloquism is based on two, or possibly three peculiarities of human anatomy. First is, of course, that our gastrointestinal system makes noises. Second is that our hearing, while it can be quite sensitive, is not very directional. Nearly everyone has had the experience of hearing a sound (usually coming from your phone) and not being able to find it. If our ears could move directionally like a rabbit’s or a deer’s, ventriloquism might not even work, and it might be impossible to fool us with that particular illusion. And the possible third peculiarity is brain structure — I’m not sure which part of the brain is responsible, but somewhere in there is a region that must be devoted to believing every fool idea that it encounters — or, of course, hears from some unusual source.
