You have given us the beau ideal of the life of an English gentleman, and conquered the very difficult task of rendering highly poetical that of which the original, divested of the beautiful colouring you have thrown upon it, is daily before our eyes. Without availing yourself of distance of time, or of place, of excitement, or of an appeal to any but our best feelings, you, like our own Apelles, have given to portraits of simple, unsophisticated, virtuous English nature, the dignity of historic painting, and the graces of fiction.
They who can read your thirty-eighth page without tears, I should suppose are few.[60] To me it was peculiarly affecting from the circumstances of my past life; but I must not allow myself to select gems from the casket, and now with much difficulty I shall restrain myself from saying more.
It is so pleasant both to feel and to express admiration, that I know you will forgive me for having thus obtruded mine.
March 24, 1819, London.—The Automaton chess-player faces the spectators, seated at what appears to be a table, upon which his chess-board is placed. He wears a rich Turkish habit, sleeves and vest of gold stuff, a dark green mantle like a lady’s triangular shawl, trimmed with fur, a white turban and heron’s feather. His right hand is extended gracefully on the table, his attitude is dignified, his aspect grave, and his countenance of that class we of the present day often designate as a Kemble face. One is surprised on first viewing him, at feeling a strong impression of sadness, and somewhat of awe, from his complete immobility, as connected with so close an imitation of life. After a few minutes, one of the spectators, who has engaged him many nights before, ventures to attack this representation of destiny, and concedes to him the right of opening the game.
A slight noise is heard of winding up, and the fateful figure raises its left hand—‘that hand whose motion is not life,’ for Lord Byron’s expressions must cross us everywhere we go. This inauspicious hand, which bears some resemblance to the talon of a bird of prey, although covered with a white glove, now lifts its pawn, and drops it in another place with a slight, but hard and bony noise. The humble-looking opponent plays his best, but his schemes are thwarted, and his pieces inexorably taken, the Automaton always putting them aside before he places his own, differing in this alone from the living player, in whom these movements are usually simultaneous. The game goes on, the spectators take part with their fellow-mortal—whisper—advise. He is puzzled with their hints, and somewhat appalled by engaging an unknown and mysterious power. The very buzz and delay of winding up increases his embarrassment. Once when he was slower than usual, the handsome right hand tapped on the table as if to reprove his tardiness; and the poor player seemed fearful of having made his opponent wait too long. At last the talon-like hand, after pouncing like a bird of prey upon several of his adversary’s best pieces with an alarming air of unwavering volition, checks his king and castle. The Automaton, secure of a speedy victory, nods his head with an air of conscious superiority, like the statue in Don Juan. A few moves finish the game, which has lasted about half an hour, and a fresh adversary advances to a fresh defeat.
This invincible champion is engaged for above a hundred nights. He has never yet been conquered in England. This is the triumph of mechanism; no one has yet discovered, or made any plausible guess how the impulse of the real player is communicated to the figure. Many persons seem to think it owes its power of playing chess better than all its opponents to its original formation; and that its capability of motion and skill in the game are inseparably united. Some only admire how neatly he takes up his pieces. After he has played, he and his table—for they are one and indivisible—are rolled away, and succeeded by an Automaton Trumpeter, who is complete from top to toe, and represents a large portion of mankind, for he holds up his head, is a fine military figure, dresses well, se présente bien, beats time correctly, and plays two marches in good tune. Many come in, aye, and go out too, of the world, in this their vocation, who do little more.
There is no visible communication between the Automaton chess-player and any human being. The lower part of the table, which is shaped like a chest on the side where it meets the eye of the spectators, is not large enough to admit a man, nor could any one so placed view the chess-board. He and it are rolled about without mystery or hesitation. His possessor walks or stands near him, with apparent carelessness, and lays down the pieces he has taken from his adversary in the course of the game, but has no other communication. He plays by day, and the room in an evening is fully lighted. There is some little trick, however, in the Automaton’s appearing invincible, as he allows but an hour in the evening, and half that time in the morning, for any game; and it is easy to conceive that a skilful player, who might not be capable of always winning, might in every instance have the power of protracting a game so as not to lose it within an hour.