Chapter IX: Part 9

At the hour appointed for exhibition, a curtain is withdrawn, or
folding doors are thrown open, and the machine rolled to within
about twelve feet of the nearest of the spectators, between whom
and it (the machine) a rope is stretched. A figure is seen
habited as a Turk, and seated, with its legs crossed, at a large
box apparently of maple wood, which serves it as a table. The
exhibiter will, if requested, roll the machine to any portion of
the room, suffer it to remain altogether on any designated spot,
or even shift its location repeatedly during the progress of a
game. The bottom of the box is elevated considerably above the
floor by means of the castors or brazen rollers on which it
moves, a clear view of the surface immediately beneath the
Automaton being thus afforded to the spectators. The chair on
which the figure sits is affixed permanently to the box. On the
top of this latter is a chess-board, also permanently affixed.
The right arm of the Chess-Player is extended at full length
before him, at right angles with his body, and lying, in an
apparently careless position, by the side of the board. The back
of the hand is upwards. The board itself is eighteen inches
square. The left arm of the figure is bent at the elbow, and in
the left hand is a pipe. A green drapery conceals the back of the
Turk, and falls partially over the front of both shoulders. To
judge from the external appearance of the box, it is divided into
five compartments—three cupboards of equal dimensions, and two
drawers occupying that portion of the chest lying beneath the
cupboards. The foregoing observations apply to the appearance of
the Automaton upon its first introduction into the presence of
the spectators.

Maelzel now informs the company that he will disclose to their
view the mechanism of the machine. Taking from his pocket a bunch
of keys he unlocks with one of them, door marked ~ in the cut
above, and throws the cupboard fully open to the inspection of
all present. Its whole interior is apparently filled with wheels,
pinions, levers, and other machinery, crowded very closely
together, so that the eye can penetrate but a little distance
into the mass. Leaving this door open to its full extent, he goes
now round to the back of the box, and raising the drapery of the
figure, opens another door situated precisely in the rear of the
one first opened. Holding a lighted candle at this door, and
shifting the position of the whole machine repeatedly at the same
time, a bright light is thrown entirely through the cupboard,
which is now clearly seen to be full, completely full, of
machinery. The spectators being satisfied of this fact, Maelzel
closes the back door, locks it, takes the key from the lock, lets
fall the drapery of the figure, and comes round to the front. The
door marked I, it will be remembered, is still open. The
exhibiter now proceeds to open the drawer which lies beneath the
cupboards at the bottom of the box—for although there are
apparently two drawers, there is really only one—the two handles
and two key holes being intended merely for ornament. Having
opened this drawer to its full extent, a small cushion, and a set
of chessmen, fixed in a frame work made to support them
perpendicularly, are discovered. Leaving this drawer, as well as
cupboard No. 1 open, Maelzel now unlocks door No. 2, and door No.
3, which are discovered to be folding doors, opening into one and
the same compartment. To the right of this compartment, however,
(that is to say the spectators’ right) a small division, six
inches wide, and filled with machinery, is partitioned off. The
main compartment itself (in speaking of that portion of the box
visible upon opening doors 2 and 3, we shall always call it the
main compartment) is lined with dark cloth and contains no
machinery whatever beyond two pieces of steel, quadrant-shaped,
and situated one in each of the rear top corners of the
compartment. A small protuberance about eight inches square, and
also covered with dark cloth, lies on the floor of the
compartment near the rear corner on the spectators’ left hand.
Leaving doors No. 2 and No. 3 open as well as the drawer, and
door No. I, the exhibiter now goes round to the back of the main
compartment, and, unlocking another door there, displays clearly
all the interior of the main compartment, by introducing a candle
behind it and within it. The whole box being thus apparently
disclosed to the scrutiny of the company, Maelzel, still leaving
the doors and drawer open, rolls the Automaton entirely round,
and exposes the back of the Turk by lifting up the drapery. A
door about ten inches square is thrown open in the loins of the
figure, and a smaller one also in the left thigh. The interior of
the figure, as seen through these apertures, appears to be
crowded with machinery. In general, every spectator is now
thoroughly satisfied of having beheld and completely scrutinized,
at one and the same time, every individual portion of the
Automaton, and the idea of any person being concealed in the
interior, during so complete an exhibition of that interior, if
ever entertained, is immediately dismissed as preposterous in the
extreme.

M. Maelzel, having rolled the machine back into its original
position, now informs the company that the Automaton will play a
game of chess with any one disposed to encounter him. This
challenge being accepted, a small table is prepared for the
antagonist, and placed close by the rope, but on the spectators’
side of it, and so situated as not to prevent the company from
obtaining a full view of the Automaton. From a drawer in this
table is taken a set of chess-men, and Maelzel arranges them
generally, but not always, with his own hands, on the chess
board, which consists merely of the usual number of squares
painted upon the table. The antagonist having taken his seat, the
exhibiter approaches the drawer of the box, and takes therefrom
the cushion, which, after removing the pipe from the hand of the
Automaton, he places under its left arm as a support. Then taking
also from the drawer the Automaton’s set of chess-men, he
arranges them upon the chessboard before the figure. He now
proceeds to close the doors and to lock them—leaving the bunch of
keys in door No. 1. He also closes the drawer, and, finally,
winds up the machine, by applying a key to an aperture in the
left end (the spectators’ left) of the box. The game now
commences—the Automaton taking the first move. The duration of
the contest is usually limited to half an hour, but if it be not
finished at the expiration of this period, and the antagonist
still contend that he can beat the Automaton, M. Maelzel has
seldom any objection to continue it. Not to weary the company, is
the ostensible, and no doubt the real object of the limitation.
It Wits of course be understood that when a move is made at his
own table, by the antagonist, the corresponding move is made at
the box of the Automaton, by Maelzel himself, who then acts as
the representative of the antagonist. On the other hand, when the
Turk moves, the corresponding move is made at the table of the
antagonist, also by M. Maelzel, who then acts as the
representative of the Automaton. In this manner it is necessary
that the exhibiter should often pass from one table to the other.
He also frequently goes in rear of the figure to remove the
chess-men which it has taken, and which it deposits, when taken,
on the box to the left (to its own left) of the board. When the
Automaton hesitates in relation to its move, the exhibiter is
occasionally seen to place himself very near its right side, and
to lay his hand, now and then, in a careless manner upon the box.
He has also a peculiar shuffle with his feet, calculated to
induce suspicion of collusion with the machine in minds which are
more cunning than sagacious. These peculiarities are, no doubt,
mere mannerisms of M. Maelzel, or, if he is aware of them at all,
he puts them in practice with a view of exciting in the
spectators a false idea of the pure mechanism in the Automaton.

The Turk plays with his left hand. All the movements of the arm
are at right angles. In this manner, the hand (which is gloved
and bent in a natural way,) being brought directly above the
piece to be moved, descends finally upon it, the fingers
receiving it, in most cases, without difficulty. Occasionally,
however, when the piece is not precisely in its proper situation,
the Automaton fails in his attempt at seizing it. When this
occurs, no second effort is made, but the arm continues its
movement in the direction originally intended, precisely as if
the piece were in the fingers. Having thus designated the spot
whither the move should have been made, the arm returns to its
cushion, and Maelzel performs the evolution which the Automaton
pointed out. At every movement of the figure machinery is heard
in motion. During the progress of the game, the figure now and
then rolls its eyes, as if surveying the board, moves its head,
and pronounces the word _echec _(check) when necessary. {*3} If a
false move be made by his antagonist, he raps briskly on the box
with the fingers of his right hand, shakes his head roughly, and
replacing the piece falsely moved, in its former situation,
assumes the next move himself. Upon beating the game, he waves
his head with an air of triumph, looks round complacently upon
the spectators, and drawing his left arm farther back than usual,
suffers his fingers alone to rest upon the cushion. In general,
the Turk is victorious—once or twice he has been beaten. The game
being ended, Maelzel will again if desired, exhibit the mechanism
of the box, in the same manner as before. The machine is then
rolled back, and a curtain hides it from the view of the company.

There have been many attempts at solving the mystery of the
Automaton. The most general opinion in relation to it, an opinion
too not unfrequently adopted by men who should have known better,
was, as we have before said, that no immediate human agency was
employed—in other words, that the machine was purely a machine
and nothing else. Many, however maintained that the exhibiter
himself regulated the movements of the figure by mechanical means
operating through the feet of the box. Others again, spoke
confidently of a magnet. Of the first of these opinions we shall
say nothing at present more than we have already said. In
relation to the second it is only necessary to repeat what we
have before stated, that the machine is rolled about on castors,
and will, at the request of a spectator, be moved to and fro to
any portion of the room, even during the progress of a game. The
supposition of the magnet is also untenable—for if a magnet were
the agent, any other magnet in the pocket of a spectator would
disarrange the entire mechanism. The exhibiter, however, will
suffer the most powerful loadstone to remain even upon the box
during the whole of the exhibition.

The first attempt at a written explanation of the secret, at
least the first attempt of which we ourselves have any knowledge,
was made in a large pamphlet printed at Paris in 1785. The
author’s hypothesis amounted to this—that a dwarf actuated the
machine. This dwarf he supposed to conceal himself during the
opening of the box by thrusting his legs into two hollow
cylinders, which were represented to be (but which are not) among
the machinery in the cupboard No. I, while his body was out of
the box entirely, and covered by the drapery of the Turk. When
the doors were shut, the dwarf was enabled to bring his body
within the box—the noise produced by some portion of the
machinery allowing him to do so unheard, and also to close the
door by which he entered. The interior of the automaton being
then exhibited, and no person discovered, the spectators, says
the author of this pamphlet, are satisfied that no one is within
any portion of the machine. This whole hypothesis was too
obviously absurd to require comment, or refutation, and
accordingly we find that it attracted very little attention.

In 1789 a book was published at Dresden by M. I. F. Freyhere in
which another endeavor was made to unravel the mystery. Mr.
Freyhere’s book was a pretty large one, and copiously illustrated
by colored engravings. His supposition was that “a well-taught
boy very thin and tall of his age (sufficiently so that he could
be concealed in a drawer almost immediately under the
chess-board”) played the game of chess and effected all the
evolutions of the Automaton. This idea, although even more silly
than that of the Parisian author, met with a better reception,
and was in some measure believed to be the true solution of the
wonder, until the inventor put an end to the discussion by
suffering a close examination of the top of the box.

These bizarre attempts at explanation were followed by others
equally bizarre. Of late years however, an anonymous writer, by a
course of reasoning exceedingly unphilosophical, has contrived to
blunder upon a plausible solution—although we cannot consider it
altogether the true one. His Essay was first published in a
Baltimore weekly paper, was illustrated by cuts, and was entitled
“An attempt to analyze the Automaton Chess-Player of M. Maelzel.”
This Essay we suppose to have been the original of the _pamphlet
to _which Sir David Brewster alludes in his letters on Natural
Magic, and which he has no hesitation in declaring a thorough and
satisfactory explanation. The _results _of the analysis are
undoubtedly, in the main, just; but we can only account for
Brewster’s pronouncing the Essay a thorough and satisfactory
explanation, by supposing him to have bestowed upon it a very
cursory and inattentive perusal. In the compendium of the Essay,
made use of in the Letters on Natural Magic, it is quite
impossible to arrive at any distinct conclusion in regard to the
adequacy or inadequacy of the analysis, on account of the gross
misarrangement and deficiency of the letters of reference
employed. The same fault is to be found in the “Attempt &c.,” as
we originally saw it. The solution consists in a series of minute
explanations, (accompanied by wood-cuts, the whole occupying many
pages) in which the object is to show the _possibility _of _so
shifting the partitions _of the box, as to allow a human being,
concealed in the interior, to move portions of his body from one
part of the box to another, during the exhibition of the
mechanism—thus eluding the scrutiny of the spectators. There can
be no doubt, as we have before observed, and as we will presently
endeavor to show, that the principle, or rather the result, of
this solution is the true one. Some person is concealed in the
box during the whole time of exhibiting the interior. We object,
however, to the whole verbose description of the _manner _in
which the partitions are shifted, to accommodate the movements of
the person concealed. We object to it as a mere theory assumed in
the first place, and to which circumstances are afterwards made
to adapt themselves. It was not, and could not have been, arrived
at by any inductive reasoning. In whatever way the shifting is
managed, it is of course concealed at every step from
observation. To show that certain movements might possibly be
effected in a certain way, is very far from showing that they are
actually so effected. There may be an infinity of other methods
by which the same results may be obtained. The probability of the
one assumed proving the correct one is then as unity to infinity.
But, in reality, this particular point, the shifting of the
partitions, is of no consequence whatever. It was altogether
unnecessary to devote seven or eight pages for the purpose of
proving what no one in his senses would deny—viz: that the
wonderful mechanical genius of Baron Kempelen could invent the
necessary means for shutting a door or slipping aside a pannel,
with a human agent too at his service in actual contact with the
pannel or the door, and the whole operations carried on, as the
author of the Essay himself shows, and as we shall attempt to
show more fully hereafter, entirely out of reach of the
observation of the spectators.

In attempting ourselves an explanation of the Automaton, we will,
in the first place, endeavor to show how its operations are
effected, and afterwards describe, as briefly as possible, the
nature of the _observations _from which we have deduced our
result.

It will be necessary for a proper understanding of the subject,
that we repeat here in a few words, the routine adopted by the
exhibiter in disclosing the interior of the box—a routine from
which he _never _deviates in any material particular. In the
first place he opens the door No. I. Leaving this open, he goes
round to the rear of the box, and opens a door precisely at the
back of door No. I. To this back door he holds a lighted candle.
He then _closes the back door, _locks it, and, coming round to
the front, opens the drawer to its full extent. This done, he
opens the doors No. 2 and No. 3, (the folding doors) and displays
the interior of the main compartment. Leaving open the main
compartment, the drawer, and the front door of cupboard No. I, he
now goes to the rear again, and throws open the back door of the
main compartment. In shutting up the box no particular order is
observed, except that the folding doors are always closed before
the drawer.

Now, let us suppose that when the machine is first rolled into
the presence of the spectators, a man is already within it. His
body is situated behind the dense machinery in cupboard No. T.
(the rear portion of which machinery is so contrived as to slip
_en masse, _from the main compartment to the cupboard No. I, as
occasion may require,) and his legs lie at full length in the
main compartment. When Maelzel opens the door No. I, the man
within is not in any danger of discovery, for the keenest eye
cannot penetrate more than about two inches into the darkness
within. But the case is otherwise when the back door of the
cupboard No. I, is opened. A bright light then pervades the
cupboard, and the body of the man would be discovered if it were
there. But it is not. The putting the key in the lock of the back
door was a signal on hearing which the person concealed brought
his body forward to an angle as acute as possible—throwing it
altogether, or nearly so, into the main compartment. This,
however, is a painful position, and cannot be long maintained.
Accordingly we find that Maelzel _closes the back door. _This
being done, there is no reason why the body of the man may not
resume its former situation—for the cupboard is again so dark as
to defy scrutiny. The drawer is now opened, and the legs of the
person within drop down behind it in the space it formerly
occupied. {*4} There is, consequently, now no longer any part of
the man in the main compartment—his body being behind the
machinery in cupboard No. 1, and his legs in the space occupied
by the drawer. The exhibiter, therefore, finds himself at liberty
to display the main compartment. This he does—opening both its
back and front doors—and no person Is discovered. The spectators
are now satisfied that the whole of the box is exposed to
view—and exposed too, all portions of it at one and the same
time. But of course this is not the case. They neither see the
space behind the drawer, nor the interior of cupboard No. 1—the
front door of which latter the exhibiter virtually shuts in
shutting its back door. Maelzel, having now rolled the machine
around, lifted up the drapery of the Turk, opened the doors in
his back and thigh, and shown his trunk to be full of machinery,
brings the whole back into its original position, and closes the
doors. The man within is now at liberty to move about. He gets up
into the body of the Turk just so high as to bring his eyes above
the level of the chess-board. It is very probable that he seats
himself upon the little square block or protuberance which is
seen in a corner of the main compartment when the doors are open.
In this position he sees the chess-board through the bosom of the
Turk which is of gauze. Bringing his right arm across his breast
he actuates the little machinery necessary to guide the left arm
and the fingers of the figure. This machinery is situated just
beneath the left shoulder of the Turk, and is consequently easily
reached by the right hand of the man concealed, if we suppose his
right arm brought across the breast. The motions of the head and
eyes, and of the right arm of the figure, as well as the sound
_echec _are produced by other mechanism in the interior, and
actuated at will by the man within. The whole of this
mechanism—that is to say all the mechanism essential to the
machine—is most probably contained within the little cupboard (of
about six inches in breadth) partitioned off at the right (the
spectators’ right) of the main compartment.

In this analysis of the operations of the Automaton, we have
purposely avoided any allusion to the manner in which the
partitions are shifted, and it will now be readily comprehended
that this point is a matter of no importance, since, by mechanism
within the ability of any common carpenter, it might be effected
in an infinity of different ways, and since we have shown that,
however performed, it is performed out of the view of the
spectators. Our result is founded upon the following
_observations _taken during frequent visits to the exhibition of
Maelzel. {*5}

I. The moves of the Turk are not made at regular intervals of
time, but accommodate themselves to the moves of the
antagonist—although this point (of regularity) so important in
all kinds of mechanical contrivance, might have been readily
brought about by limiting the time allowed for the moves of the
antagonist. For example, if this limit were three minutes, the
moves of the Automaton might be made at any given intervals
longer than three minutes. The fact then of irregularity, when
regularity might have been so easily attained, goes to prove that
regularity is unimportant to the action of the Automaton—in other
words, that the Automaton is not a _pure machine._

2. When the Automaton is about to move a piece, a distinct motion
is observable just beneath the left shoulder, and which motion
agitates in a slight degree, the drapery covering the front of
the left shoulder. This motion invariably precedes, by about two
seconds, the movement of the arm itself—and the arm never, in any
instance, moves without this preparatory motion in the shoulder.
Now let the antagonist move a piece, and let the corresponding
move be made by Maelzel, as usual, upon the board of the
Automaton. Then let the antagonist narrowly watch the Automaton,
until he detect the preparatory motion in the shoulder.
Immediately upon detecting this motion, and before the arm itself
begins to move, let him withdraw his piece, as if perceiving an
error in his manœuvre. It will then be seen that the movement of
the arm, which, in all other cases, immediately succeeds the
motion in the shoulder, is withheld—is not made—although Maelzel
has not yet performed, on the board of the Automaton, any move
corresponding to the withdrawal of the antagonist. In this case,
that the Automaton was about to move is evident—and that he did
not move, was an effect plainly produced by the withdrawal of the
antagonist, and without any intervention of Maelzel.

This fact fully proves, 1—that the intervention of Maelzel, in
performing the moves of the antagonist on the board of the
Automaton, is not essential to the movements of the Automaton,
2—that its movements are regulated by _mind—_by some person who
sees the board of the antagonist, 3—that its movements are not
regulated by the mind of Maelzel, whose back was turned towards
the antagonist at the withdrawal of his move.

3. The Automaton does not invariably win the game. Were the
machine a pure machine this would not be the case—it would always
win. The _principle _being discovered by which a machine can be
made to _play _a game of chess, an extension of the same
principle would enable it to win a game—a farther extension would
enable it to win _all _games—that is, to beat any possible game
of an antagonist. A little consideration will convince any one
that the difficulty of making a machine beat all games, Is not in
the least degree greater, as regards the principle of the
operations necessary, than that of making it beat a single game.
If then we regard the Chess-Player as a machine, we must suppose,
(what is highly improbable,) that its inventor preferred leaving
it incomplete to perfecting it—a supposition rendered still more
absurd, when we reflect that the leaving it incomplete would
afford an argument against the possibility of its being a pure
machine—the very argument we now adduce.

4. When the situation of the game is difficult or complex, we
never perceive the Turk either shake his head or roll his eyes.
It is only when his next move is obvious, or when the game is so
circumstanced that to a man in the Automaton’s place there would
be no necessity for reflection. Now these peculiar movements of
the head and eyes are movements customary with persons engaged in
meditation, and the ingenious Baron Kempelen would have adapted
these movements (were the machine a pure machine) to occasions
proper for their display—that is, to occasions of complexity. But
the reverse is seen to be the case, and this reverse applies
precisely to our supposition of a man in the interior. When
engaged in meditation about the game he has no time to think of
setting in motion the mechanism of the Automaton by which are
moved the head and the eyes. When the game, however, is obvious,
he has time to look about him, and, accordingly, we see the head
shake and the eyes roll.

5. When the machine is rolled round to allow the spectators an
examination of the back of the Turk, and when his drapery is
lifted up and the doors in the trunk and thigh thrown open, the
interior of the trunk is seen to be crowded with machinery. In
scrutinizing this machinery while the Automaton was in motion,
that is to say while the whole machine was moving on the castors,
it appeared to us that certain portions of the mechanism changed
their shape and position in a degree too great to be accounted
for by the simple laws of perspective; and subsequent
examinations convinced us that these undue alterations were
attributable to mirrors in the interior of the trunk. The
introduction of mirrors among the machinery could not have been
intended to influence, in any degree, the machinery itself. Their
operation, whatever that operation should prove to be, must
necessarily have reference to the eye of the spectator. We at
once concluded that these mirrors were so placed to multiply to
the vision some few pieces of machinery within the trunk so as to
give it the appearance of being crowded with mechanism. Now the
direct inference from this is that the machine is not a pure
machine. For if it were, the inventor, so far from wishing its
mechanism to appear complex, and using deception for the purpose
of giving it this appearance, would have been especially desirous
of convincing those who witnessed his exhibition, of the
_simplicity _of the means by which results so wonderful were
brought about.

6. The external appearance, and, especially, the deportment of
the Turk, are, when we consider them as imitations of _life, _but
very indifferent imitations. The countenance evinces no
ingenuity, and is surpassed, in its resemblance to the human
face, by the very commonest of wax-works. The eyes roll
unnaturally in the head, without any corresponding motions of the
lids or brows. The arm, particularly, performs its operations in
an exceedingly stiff, awkward, jerking, and rectangular manner.
Now, all this is the result either of inability in Maelzel to do
better, or of intentional neglect—accidental neglect being out of
the question, when we consider that the whole time of the
ingenious proprietor is occupied in the improvement of his
machines. Most assuredly we must not refer the unlife-like
appearances to inability—for all the rest of Maelzel’s automata
are evidence of his full ability to copy the motions and
peculiarities of life with the most wonderful exactitude. The
rope-dancers, for example, are inimitable. When the clown laughs,
his lips, his eyes, his eye-brows, and eyelids—indeed, all the
features of his countenance—are imbued with their appropriate
expressions. In both him and his companion, every gesture is so
entirely easy, and free from the semblance of artificiality,
that, were it not for the diminutiveness of their size, and the
fact of their being passed from one spectator to another previous
to their exhibition on the rope, it would be difficult to
convince any assemblage of persons that these wooden automata
were not living creatures. We cannot, therefore, doubt Mr.
Maelzel’s ability, and we must necessarily suppose that he
intentionally suffered his Chess Player to remain the same
artificial and unnatural figure which Baron Kempelen (no doubt
also through design) originally made it. What this design was it
is not difficult to conceive. Were the Automaton life-like in its
motions, the spectator would be more apt to attribute its
operations to their true cause, (that is, to human agency within)
than he is now, when the awkward and rectangular manœuvres convey
the idea of pure and unaided mechanism.

7. When, a short time previous to the commencement of the game,
the Automaton is wound up by the exhibiter as usual, an ear in
any degree accustomed to the sounds produced in winding up a
system of machinery, will not fail to discover, instantaneously,
that the axis turned by the key in the box of the Chess-Player,
cannot possibly be connected with either a weight, a spring, or
any system of machinery whatever. The inference here is the same
as in our last observation. The winding up is inessential to the
operations of the Automaton, and is performed with the design of
exciting in the spectators the false idea of mechanism.

8. When the question is demanded explicitly of Maelzel—“Is the
Automaton a pure machine or not?” his reply is invariably the
same—“I will say nothing about it.” Now the notoriety of the
Automaton, and the great curiosity it has every where excited,
are owing more especially to the prevalent opinion that it is a
pure machine, than to any other circumstance. Of course, then, it
is the interest of the proprietor to represent it as a pure
machine. And what more obvious, and more effectual method could
there be of impressing the spectators with this desired idea,
than a positive and explicit declaration to that effect? On the
other hand, what more obvious and effectual method could there be
of exciting a disbelief in the Automaton’s being a pure machine,
than by withholding such explicit declaration? For, people will
naturally reason thus,—It is Maelzel’s interest to represent this
thing a pure machine—he refuses to do so, directly, in words,
although he does not scruple, and is evidently anxious to do so,
indirectly by actions—were it actually what he wishes to
represent it by actions, he would gladly avail himself of the
more direct testimony of words—the inference is, that a
consciousness of its not being a pure machine, is the reason of
his silence—his actions cannot implicate him in a falsehood—his
words may.

9. When, in exhibiting the interior of the box, Maelzel has
thrown open the door No. I, and also the door immediately behind
it, he holds a lighted candle at the back door (as mentioned
above) and moves the entire machine to and fro with a view of
convincing the company that the cupboard No. 1 is entirely filled
with machinery. When the machine is thus moved about, it will be
apparent to any careful observer, that whereas that portion of
the machinery near the front door No. 1, is perfectly steady and
unwavering, the portion farther within fluctuates, in a very
slight degree, with the movements of the machine. This
circumstance first aroused in us the suspicion that the more
remote portion of the machinery was so arranged as to be easily
slipped, _en masse, _from its position when occasion should
require it. This occasion we have already stated to occur when
the man concealed within brings his body into an erect position
upon the closing of the back door.

10. Sir David Brewster states the figure of the Turk to be of the
size of life—but in fact it is far above the ordinary size.
Nothing is more easy than to err in our notions of magnitude. The
body of the Automaton is generally insulated, and, having no
means of immediately comparing it with any human form, we suffer
ourselves to consider it as of ordinary dimensions. This mistake
may, however, be corrected by observing the Chess-Player when, as
is sometimes the case, the exhibiter approaches it. Mr. Maelzel,
to be sure, is not very tall, but upon drawing near the machine,
his head will be found at least eighteen inches below the head of
the Turk, although the latter, it will be remembered, is in a
sitting position.

11. The box behind which the Automaton is placed, is precisely
three feet six inches long, two feet four inches deep, and two
feet six inches high. These dimensions are fully sufficient for
the accommodation of a man very much above the common size—and
the main compartment alone is capable of holding any ordinary man
in the position we have mentioned as assumed by the person
concealed. As these are facts, which any one who doubts them may
prove by actual calculation, we deem it unnecessary to dwell upon
them. We will only suggest that, although the top of the box is
apparently a board of about three inches in thickness, the
spectator may satisfy himself by stooping and looking up at it
when the main compartment is open, that it is in reality very
thin. The height of the drawer also will be misconceived by those
who examine it in a cursory manner. There is a space of about
three inches between the top of the drawer as seen from the
exterior, and the bottom of the cupboard—a space which must be
included in the height of the drawer. These contrivances to make
the room within the box appear less than it actually is, are
referrible to a design on the part of the inventor, to impress
the company again with a false idea, viz. that no human being can
be accommodated within the box.

12. The interior of the main compartment is lined throughout with
_cloth. _This cloth we suppose to have a twofold object. A
portion of _it _may form, when tightly stretched, the only
partitions which there is any necessity for removing during the
changes of the man’s position, viz: the partition between the
rear of the main compartment and the rear of the cupboard No. 1,
and the partition between the main compartment, and the space
behind the drawer when open. If we imagine this to be the case,
the difficulty of shifting the partitions vanishes at once, if
indeed any such difficulty could be supposed under any
circumstances to exist. The second object of the cloth is to
deaden and render indistinct all sounds occasioned by the
movements of the person within.

13. The antagonist (as we have before observed) is not suffered
to play at the board of the Automaton, but is seated at some
distance from the machine. The reason which, most probably, would
be assigned for this circumstance, if the question were demanded,
is, that were the antagonist otherwise situated, his person would
intervene between the machine and the spectators, and preclude
the latter from a distinct view. But this difficulty might be
easily obviated, either by elevating the seats of the company, or
by turning the end of the box towards them during the game. The
true cause of the restriction is, perhaps, very different. Were
the antagonist seated in contact with the box, the secret would
be liable to discovery, by his detecting, with the aid of a quick
car, the breathings of the man concealed.

14. Although M. Maelzel, in disclosing the interior of the
machine, sometimes slightly deviates from the _routine _which we
have pointed out, yet _reeler in _any instance does he _so
_deviate from it as to interfere with our solution. For example,
he has been known to open, first of all, the drawer—but he never
opens the main compartment without first closing the back door of
cupboard No. 1—he never opens the main compartment without first
pulling out the drawer—he never shuts the drawer without first
shutting the main compartment—he never opens the back door of
cupboard No. 1 while the main compartment is open—and the game of
chess is never commenced until the whole machine is closed. Now
if it were observed that _never, in any single instance, _did M.
Maelzel differ from the routine we have pointed out as necessary
to our solution, it would be one of the strongest possible
arguments in corroboration of it—but the argument becomes
infinitely strengthened if we duly consider the circumstance that
he _does occasionally _deviate from the routine but never does
_so _deviate as to falsify the solution.

15. There are six candles on the board of the Automaton during
exhibition. The question naturally arises—“Why are so many
employed, when a single candle, or, at farthest, two, would have
been amply sufficient to afford the spectators a clear view of
the board, in a room otherwise so well lit up as the exhibition
room always is—when, moreover, if we suppose the machine a _pure
machine, _there can be no necessity for so much light, or indeed
any light at all, to enable _it _to perform its operations—and
when, especially, only a single candle is placed upon the table
of the antagonist?” The first and most obvious inference is, that
so strong a light is requisite to enable the man within to see
through the transparent material (probably fine gauze) of which
the breast of the Turk is composed. But when we consider the
arrangement of the candles, another reason immediately presents
itself. There are six lights (as we have said before) in all.
Three of these are on each side of the figure. Those most remote
from the spectators are the longest—those in the middle are about
two inches shorter—and those nearest the company about two inches
shorter still—and the candles on one side differ in height from
the candles respectively opposite on the other, by a ratio
different from two inches—that is to say, the longest candle on
one side is about three inches shorter than the longest candle on
the other, and so on. Thus it will be seen that no two of the
candles are of the same height, and thus also the difficulty of
ascertaining the _material _of the breast of the figure (against
which the light is especially directed) is greatly augmented by
the dazzling effect of the complicated crossings of the
rays—crossings which are brought about by placing the centres of
radiation all upon different levels.

16. While the Chess-Player was in possession of Baron Kempelen,
it was more than once observed, first, that an Italian in the
suite of the Baron was never visible during the playing of a game
at chess by the Turk, and, secondly, that the Italian being taken
seriously ill, the exhibition was suspended until his recovery.
This Italian professed a _total _ignorance of the game of chess,
although all others of the suite played well. Similar
observations have been made since the Automaton has been
purchased by Maelzel. There is a man, _Schlumberoer, _who attends
him wherever he goes, but who has no ostensible occupation other
than that of assisting in the packing and unpacking of the
automata. This man is about the medium size, and has a remarkable
stoop in the shoulders. Whether he professes to play chess or
not, we are not informed. It is quite certain, however, that he
is never to be seen during the exhibition of the Chess-Player,
although frequently visible just before and just after the
exhibition. Moreover, some years ago Maelzel visited Richmond
with his automata, and exhibited them, we believe, in the house
now occupied by M. Bossieux as a Dancing Academy. _Schlumberg_er
was suddenly taken ill, and during his illness there was no
exhibition of the Chess-Player. These facts are well known to
many of our citizens. The reason assigned for the suspension of
the Chess-Player’s performances, was _not _the illness of
_Schlumberger. _The inferences from all this we leave, without
farther comment, to the reader.

17. The Turk plays with his _left_ arm. A circumstance so
remarkable cannot be accidental. Brewster takes no notice of it
whatever beyond a mere statement, we believe, that such is the
fact. The early writers of treatises on the Automaton, seem not
to have observed the matter at all, and have no reference to it.
The author of the pamphlet alluded to by Brewster, mentions it,
but acknowledges his inability to account for it. Yet it is
obviously from such prominent discrepancies or incongruities as
this that deductions are to be made (if made at all) which shall
lead us to the truth.

The circumstance of the Automaton’s playing with his left hand
cannot have connexion with the operations of the machine,
considered merely as such. Any mechanical arrangement which would
cause the figure to move, in any given manner, the left
arm—could, if reversed, cause it to move, in the same manner, the
right. But these principles cannot be extended to the human
organization, wherein there is a marked and radical difference in
the construction, and, at all events, in the powers, of the right
and left arms. Reflecting upon this latter fact, we naturally
refer the incongruity noticeable in the Chess-Player to this
peculiarity in the human organization. If so, we must imagine
some _reversion—_for the Chess-Player plays precisely as a man
_would not. _These ideas, once entertained, are sufficient of
themselves, to suggest the notion of a man in the interior. A few
more imperceptible steps lead us, finally, to the result. The
Automaton plays with his left arm, because under no other
circumstances could the man within play with his right—a
_desideratum _of course. Let us, for example, imagine the
Automaton to play with his right arm. To reach the machinery
which moves the arm, and which we have before explained to lie
just beneath the shoulder, it would be necessary for the man
within either to use his right arm in an exceedingly painful and
awkward position, (viz. brought up close to his body and tightly
compressed between his body and the side of the Automaton,) or
else to use his left arm brought across his breast. In neither
case could he act with the requisite ease or precision. On the
contrary, the Automaton playing, as it actually does, with the
left arm, all difficulties vanish. The right arm of the man
within is brought across his breast, and his right fingers act,
without any constraint, upon the machinery in the shoulder of the
figure.

We do not believe that any reasonable objections can be urged
against this solution of the Automaton Chess-Player.

THE POWER OF WORDS

OINOS. Pardon, Agathos, the weakness of a spirit new-fledged with
immortality!

AGATHOS. You have spoken nothing, my Oinos, for which pardon is
to be demanded. Not even here is knowledge a thing of intuition.
For wisdom, ask of the angels freely, that it may be given!

OINOS. But in this existence, I dreamed that I should be at once
cognizant of all things, and thus at once be happy in being
cognizant of all.

AGATHOS. Ah, not in knowledge is happiness, but in the
acquisition of knowledge! In for ever knowing, we are for ever
blessed; but to know all were the curse of a fiend.

OINOS. But does not The Most High know all?

AGATHOS. That (since he is The Most Happy) must be still the one
thing unknown even to Him.

OINOS. But, since we grow hourly in knowledge, must not at last
all things be known?

AGATHOS. Look down into the abysmal distances!—attempt to force
the gaze down the multitudinous vistas of the stars, as we sweep
slowly through them thus—and thus—and thus! Even the spiritual
vision, is it not at all points arrested by the continuous golden
walls of the universe?—the walls of the myriads of the shining
bodies that mere number has appeared to blend into unity?

OINOS. I clearly perceive that the infinity of matter is no
dream.

AGATHOS. There are _no_ dreams in Aidenn—but it is here whispered
that, of this infinity of matter, the _sole_ purpose is to afford
infinite springs, at which the soul may allay the thirst _to
know_, which is for ever unquenchable within it—since to quench
it, would be to extinguish the soul’s self. Question me then, my
Oinos, freely and without fear. Come! we will leave to the left
the loud harmony of the Pleiades, and swoop outward from the
throne into the starry meadows beyond Orion, where, for pansies
and violets, and heart’s-ease, are the beds of the triplicate and
triple-tinted suns.

OINOS. And now, Agathos, as we proceed, instruct me!—speak to me
in the earth’s familiar tones. I understand not what you hinted
to me, just now, of the modes or of the method of what, during
mortality, we were accustomed to call Creation. Do you mean to
say that the Creator is not God?

AGATHOS. I mean to say that the Deity does not create.

OINOS. Explain.

AGATHOS. In the beginning only, he created. The seeming creatures
which are now, throughout the universe, so perpetually springing
into being, can only be considered as the mediate or indirect,
not as the direct or immediate results of the Divine creative
power.

OINOS. Among men, my Agathos, this idea would be considered
heretical in the extreme.

AGATHOS. Among angels, my Oinos, it is seen to be simply true.

OINOS. I can comprehend you thus far—that certain operations of
what we term Nature, or the natural laws, will, under certain
conditions, give rise to that which has all the _appearance_ of
creation. Shortly before the final overthrow of the earth, there
were, I well remember, many very successful experiments in what
some philosophers were weak enough to denominate the creation of
animalculæ.

AGATHOS. The cases of which you speak were, in fact, instances of
the secondary creation—and of the only species of creation which
has ever been, since the first word spoke into existence the
first law.

OINOS. Are not the starry worlds that, from the abyss of
nonentity, burst hourly forth into the heavens—are not these
stars, Agathos, the immediate handiwork of the King?

AGATHOS. Let me endeavor, my Oinos, to lead you, step by step, to
the conception I intend. You are well aware that, as no thought
can perish, so no act is without infinite result. We moved our
hands, for example, when we were dwellers on the earth, and, in
so doing, gave vibration to the atmosphere which engirdled it.
This vibration was indefinitely extended, till it gave impulse to
every particle of the earth’s air, which thenceforward, and for
ever, was actuated by the one movement of the hand. This fact the
mathematicians of our globe well knew. They made the special
effects, indeed, wrought in the fluid by special impulses, the
subject of exact calculation—so that it became easy to determine
in what precise period an impulse of given extent would engirdle
the orb, and impress (for ever) every atom of the atmosphere
circumambient. Retrograding, they found no difficulty, from a
given effect, under given conditions, in determining the value of
the original impulse. Now the mathematicians who saw that the
results of any given impulse were absolutely endless—and who saw
that a portion of these results were accurately traceable through
the agency of algebraic analysis—who saw, too, the facility of
the retrogradation—these men saw, at the same time, that this
species of analysis itself, had within itself a capacity for
indefinite progress—that there were no bounds conceivable to its
advancement and applicability, except within the intellect of him
who advanced or applied it. But at this point our mathematicians
paused.

OINOS. And why, Agathos, should they have proceeded?

AGATHOS. Because there were some considerations of deep interest
beyond. It was deducible from what they knew, that to a being of
infinite understanding—one to whom the perfection of the
algebraic analysis lay unfolded—there could be no difficulty in
tracing every impulse given the air—and the ether through the
air—to the remotest consequences at any even infinitely remote
epoch of time. It is indeed demonstrable that every such impulse
given the air, must, in the end, impress every individual thing
that exists within the universe;—and the being of infinite
understanding—the being whom we have imagined—might trace the
remote undulations of the impulse—trace them upward and onward in
their influences upon all particles of an matter—upward and
onward for ever in their modifications of old forms—or, in other
words, in their creation of new—until he found them
reflected—unimpressive at last—back from the throne of the
Godhead. And not only could such a thing do this, but at any
epoch, should a given result be afforded him—should one of these
numberless comets, for example, be presented to his inspection—he
could have no difficulty in determining, by the analytic
retrogradation, to what original impulse it was due. This power
of retrogradation in its absolute fulness and perfection—this
faculty of referring at all epochs, all effects to all causes—is
of course the prerogative of the Deity alone—but in every variety
of degree, short of the absolute perfection, is the power itself
exercised by the whole host of the Angelic intelligences.

OINOS. But you speak merely of impulses upon the air.

AGATHOS. In speaking of the air, I referred only to the earth;
but the general proposition has reference to impulses upon the
ether—which, since it pervades, and alone pervades all space, is
thus the great medium of creation.

OINOS. Then all motion, of whatever nature, creates?

AGATHOS. It must: but a true philosophy has long taught that the
source of all motion is thought—and the source of all thought is—

OINOS. God.

AGATHOS. I have spoken to you, Oinos, as to a child of the fair
Earth which lately perished—of impulses upon the atmosphere of
the Earth.

OINOS. You did.

AGATHOS. And while I thus spoke, did there not cross your mind
some thought of the physical power of words? Is not every word an
impulse on the air?

OINOS. But why, Agathos, do you weep—and why, oh why do your
wings droop as we hover above this fair star—which is the
greenest and yet most terrible of all we have encountered in our
flight? Its brilliant flowers look like a fairy dream—but its
fierce volcanoes like the passions of a turbulent heart.

AGATHOS. They are!—they are! This wild star—it is now three
centuries since, with clasped hands, and with streaming eyes, at
the feet of my beloved—I spoke it—with a few passionate
sentences—into birth. Its brilliant flowers are the dearest of
all unfulfilled dreams, and its raging volcanoes are the passions
of the most turbulent and unhallowed of hearts.

THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA

Μελλοντα ταυτα.—SOPHOCLES—_Antig._
“These things are in the near future.”

_ Una._ “Born again?”

_ Monos._ Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, “born again.” These
were the words upon whose mystical meaning I had so long
pondered, rejecting the explanations of the priesthood, until
Death himself resolved for me the secret.

_Una._ Death!

_Monos._ How strangely, sweet Una, you echo my words! I observe,
too, a vacillation in your step—a joyous inquietude in your eyes.
You are confused and oppressed by the majestic novelty of the
Life Eternal. Yes, it was of Death I spoke. And here how
singularly sounds that word which of old was wont to bring terror
to all hearts—throwing a mildew upon all pleasures!