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Still 1783, in London, expert Philip Thicknesse's article in the 'Monthly
Review' declares, ''That an Automaton may be made to move its hand, its
head, and its eyes, in certain and regular motions, is past all doubt; but that an AUTOMATON can be made to move the Chessmen properly, as a
pugnacious player, in consequence of the preceding move of a stranger, who undertakes to play against it, is UTTERLY IMPOSSIBLE. Wolfgang von Kempelen's machine, when he is stripped of his Turkish robes, turned out of his splendid apartment, deprived of the serious deportment of all the parties, and parade of admittance, is a simple trick.'' [No one much agreed.] ''By diversionary tactics, the display of the Turk's clockwork innards was ingenious device to delude observers that every spectator should think he was secretly controlling the automaton by some incomprehensible and invisible powers, according to the preceding move of the stranger who plays; and he places himself close to the right elbow of the Turk, previous to its move; then puts his left hand into his coat pocket, and by an awkward kind of motion, induces most people to believe that he has a magnet concealed in his pocket, by which he can direct the movement of the Turk's arm. Add to this, that he has a cabinet on a side-table, which he now and then unlocks and locks, a candle burning, and a key to wind up the Automaton; all of which are merely to puzzle the spectators. The real mover is concealed in the Counter, which is quite large enough (exclusive of the clockwork) to contain a child of ten years of age, who could play well by using a mirror or see all the moves through the Turk's habit.''  --All above quotes of Thicknesse from Tom Standage 'The Turk' 2002, who adds ''His pamphlet did not dent the Turk's popularity during the months spent in London.'' Kempelen would often leave the Automaton to play several moves while chatting in the audience.