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MAELZEL'S CHESS-PLAYER.
 Perhaps no exhibition of the kind has ever elicited so
general attention as the Chess-Player of Maelzel. Wherever seen it has
been an object of intense curiosity, to all persons who think. Yet the
question of its modus operandi is still undetermined. Nothing
has
been written on this topic which can be considered as decisive — and
accordingly
we find every where men of mechanical genius, of great general
acuteness,
and discriminative understanding, who make no scruple in pronouncing
the
Automaton a pure machine, unconnected with human agency in its
movements,
and consequently, beyond all comparison, the most astonishing of the
inventions
of mankind. And such it would undoubtedly be, were they right in their
supposition. Assuming this hypothesis, it would be grossly absurd to
compare
with the Chess-Player, any similar thing of either modern or ancient
days.
Yet there have been many and wonderful automata. In Brewster's Letters
on Natural Magic, we have an account of the most remarkable. Among
these
may be mentioned, as having beyond doubt existed, firstly, the coach
invented
by M. Camus for the amusement of Louis XIV when a child. A table, about
four feet square, was introduced, into the room appropriated for the
exhibition.
Upon this table was placed a carriage, six inches in length, made of
wood,
and drawn [column 2:] by two horses of the same
material.
One window being down, a lady was seen on the back seat. A coachman
held
the reins on the box, and a footman and page were in their places
behind.
M. Camus now touched a spring; whereupon the coachman smacked his whip,
and the horses proceeded in a natural manner, along the edge of the
table,
drawing after them the carriage. Having gone as far as possible in this
direction, a sudden turn was made to the left, and the vehicle was
driven
at right angles to its former course, and still closely along the edge
of the table. In this way the coach proceeded until it arrived opposite
the chair of the young prince. It then stopped, the page descended and
opened the door, the lady alighted, and presented a petition to her
sovereign.
She then re-entered. The page put up the steps, closed the door, and
resumed
his station. The coachman whipped his horses, and the carriage was
driven
back to its original position.
The magician of M. Maillardet is also
worthy of notice.
We copy the following account of it from the Letters before
mentioned
of Dr. B., who derived his information principally from the Edinburgh
Encyclopædia.
"One of the most popular pieces of
mechanism which
we have seen, is the Magician constructed by M. Maillardet, for the
purpose
of answering certain given questions. A figure, dressed like a
magician,
appears seated at the bottom of a wall, holding a wand in one hand, and
a book in the other. A number of questions, ready prepared, are
inscribed
on oval medallions, and the spectator takes any of these he chooses,
and
to which he wishes an answer, and having placed it in a drawer ready to
receive it, the drawer shuts with a spring till the answer is returned.
The magician then arises from his seat, bows his head, describes
circles
with his wand, and consulting the book as if in deep thought, he lifts
it towards his face. Having thus appeared to ponder over the proposed
question,
he raises his wand, and striking with it the wall above his head, two
folding
doors fly open, and display an appropriate answer to the question. The
doors again close, the magician resumes his original position, and the
drawer opens to return the medallion. There are twenty of these
medallions,
all containing different questions, to which the magician returns the
most
suitable and striking answers. The medallions are thin plates of brass,
of an elliptical form, exactly resembling each other. Some of the
medallions
have a question inscribed on each side, both of which the magician
answered
in succession. If the drawer is shut without a medallion being put into
it, the magician rises, consults his book, shakes his head, and resumes
his seat. The folding doors remain shut, and the drawer is returned
empty.
If two medallions are put into the drawer together, an answer is
returned
only to the lower one. When the machinery is wound up, the movements
continue
about an hour, during which time about fifty questions may be answered.
The inventor stated that the means by which the different medallions
acted
upon the machinery, so as to produce the proper answers to the
questions
which they contained, were extremely simple."
The duck of Vaucanson was still more
remarkable.
It was of the size of life, and so perfect an imitation of the living
animal
that all the spectators were deceived. It executed, says Brewster, all
the natural movements [page 319:] and gestures, it
eat [[ate]] and drank with avidity, performed all the quick motions of
the head and throat which are peculiar to the duck, and like it muddled
the water which it drank with its bill. It produced also the sound of
quacking
in the most natural manner. In the anatomical structure the artist
exhibited
the highest skill. Every bone in the real duck had its representative
in
the automaton, and its wings were anatomically exact. Every cavity,
apophysis,
and curvature was imitated, and each bone executed its proper
movements.
When corn was thrown down before it, the duck stretched out its neck to
pick it up, swallowed, and digested it.*
But if these machines were ingenious,
what shall
we think of the calculating machine of Mr. Babbage? What shall we think
of an engine of wood and metal which can not only compute astronomical
and navigation tables to any given extent, but render the exactitude of
its operations mathematically certain through its power of correcting
its
possible errors? What shall we think of a machine which can not only
accomplish
all this, but actually print off its elaborate results, when obtained,
without the slightest intervention of the intellect of man? It will,
perhaps,
be said, in reply, that a machine such as we have described is
altogether
above comparison with the Chess-Player of Maelzel. By no means — it is
altogether beneath it — that is to say provided we assume (what should
never for a moment be assumed) that the Chess-Player is a pure
machine, and performs its operations without any immediate human
agency. Arithmetical
or algebraical calculations are, from their very nature, fixed and
determinate.
Certain data being given, certain results necessarily and
inevitably
follow. These results have dependence upon nothing, and are influenced
by nothing but the data originally given. And the question to
be
solved proceeds, or should proceed, to its final determination, by a
succession
of unerring steps liable to no change, and subject to no modification.
This being the case, we can without difficulty conceive the possibility
of so arranging a piece of mechanism, that upon
starting it in accordance
with the data of the question to be solved, it should continue
its
movements regularly, progressively, and undeviatingly towards the
required
solution, since these movements, however complex, are never imagined to
be otherwise than finite and determinate. But the case is widely
different
with the Chess-Player. With him there is no determinate progression. No
one move in chess necessarily follows upon any one other. From no
particular
disposition of the men at one period of a game can we predicate their
disposition
at a different period. Let us place the first move in a game
of
chess, in juxta-position with the data of an algebraical
question,
and their great difference will be immediately perceived. From the
latter
— from the data — the second step of the question, dependent
thereupon,
inevitably follows. It is modelled by the data. It must be thus
and not otherwise. But from the first move in the game
of chess no
especial second move follows of necessity. In the algebraical question,
as it proceeds towards solution, the certainty of its
operations
remains altogether unimpaired. The second step having been a
consequence
of the data, the [column 2:] third step
is equally
a consequence of the second, the fourth of the third, the fifth of the
fourth, and so on, and not possibly otherwise, to the end. But
in
proportion to the progress made in a game of chess, is the uncertainty
of each ensuing move. A few moves having been made, no
step
is certain. Different spectators of the game would advise different
moves.
All is then dependent upon the variable judgment of the players. Now
even
granting (what should not be granted) that the movements of the
Automaton
Chess-Player were in themselves determinate, they would be necessarily
interrupted and disarranged by the indeterminate will of his
antagonist.
There is then no analogy whatever between the operations of the
Chess-Player,
and those of the calculating machine of Mr. Babbage, and if we choose
to
call the former a pure machine we must be prepared to admit
that
it is, beyond all comparison, the most wonderful of the inventions of
mankind.
Its original projector, however, Baron Kempelen, had no scruple in
declaring
it to be a "very ordinary piece of mechanism — a bagatelle whose
effects appeared so marvellous only from the boldness of the
conception,
and the fortunate choice of the methods adopted for promoting the
illusion."
But it is needless to dwell upon this point. It is quite certain that
the
operations of the Automaton are regulated by mind, and by
nothing
else. Indeed this matter is susceptible of a mathematical
demonstration, a priori. The only question then is of the manner
in which
human agency is brought to bear. Before entering upon this subject it
would
be as well to give a brief history and description of the Chess-Player
for the benefit of such of our readers as may never have had an
opportunity
of witnessing Mr. Maelzel's exhibition.
The Automaton Chess-Player was invented in 1769, by
Baron Kempelen, a nobleman of Presburg in Hungary, who afterwards
disposed
of it, together with the secret of its operations, to its present
possessor.
Soon after its completion it was exhibited in Presburg, Paris, Vienna,
and other continental cities. In 1783 and 1784, it was taken to London
by Mr. Maelzel. Of late years it has visited the principal towns in the
United States. Wherever seen, the most intense curiosity was excited by
its appearance, and numerous have been the attempts, by men of all
classes,
to fathom the mystery of its evolutions. The cut above gives a
tolerable
representation of the figure as seen by the citizens of Richmond a few
weeks ago. The right arm, however, should lie more at length upon the
box,
a chess-board should appear upon it, and the cushion should not be seen
while the pipe is held. Some immaterial alterations have been made in
the
costume of the player since it came into the possession of Maelzel —
the
plume, for example, was not originally worn. [page 320:]
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 1 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
1, 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, [column 2:] 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.
1, 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 chess-board 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 will 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 [page 321:]
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 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.* 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 [column
2:] 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. 1, 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 [page 322:] 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. 1. Leaving this open, he goes round to the rear
of
the box, and opens a door precisely at the back of door No. 1. 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 [column 2:] of the main
compartment.
Leaving open the main compartment, the drawer, and the front door of
cupboard
No. 1, 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. 1, (the
rear portion of which machinery is so contrived as to slip en
masse, from the main compartment to the cupboard No. 1, as
occasion may require,)
and his legs lie at full length in the main compartment. When Maelzel
opens
the door No. 1, 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.
1, 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.* 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 [page 323:] 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.*
1. 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. [column
2:] 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 [page 324:] 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 eye-lids — 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 [column
2:] 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. 1, 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 [page 325:] 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 never 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 [column
2:] 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, Schlumberger, 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. Schlumberger was suddenly
taken
ill, and during his illness there was no exhibition of the
Chess-Player. [page 326:] 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. |
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