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      also through design) originally made it.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.