A Further Account of the Academy – The Author Proposes Some Improvements – Political Projectors
In the school of political projectors, I was far from being entertained. To my eyes, the professors appeared entirely out of their senses, a sight that always leaves me feeling rather melancholy. These unhappy people were proposing the most absurd schemes: persuading monarchs to choose their favorites based on wisdom and virtue, teaching ministers to consider the public good, and rewarding true merit and great abilities. They even suggested that princes should understand that their own interests are the same as those of their people. To me, these were wild, impossible chimeras that had never before entered the human mind. They only confirmed the old observation that there is nothing so irrational that some philosopher has not maintained it as truth.
However, I must do justice to this part of the Academy by acknowledging that not all of the professors were so visionary. One ingenious doctor seemed perfectly versed in the nature of government. He had spent his life searching for remedies for the various "diseases" that affect public administration—corruptions caused by the vices of those who govern and the disobedience of those who are governed. He argued that since the political body resembles the natural body, the health of both must be preserved by the same medical prescriptions.
For instance, he observed that senates and great councils are often troubled by "humors" of the head and heart, by violent convulsions, or by a peculiar inability to move the fingers of the right hand. Consequently, he proposed that whenever a senate meets, a team of physicians should attend for the first three days. After observing the members and feeling their pulses, the doctors would return on the fourth day with their apothecaries. Before the debate could begin, they would administer various medicines—laxatives to clear the head, corrosives to sharpen the mind, or palliatives to calm the temper—depending on each senator’s condition. According to the doctor, this would encourage unanimity, shorten debates, and close many mouths that are currently far too open.
Furthermore, because the favorites of princes are notoriously troubled by weak memories, the same doctor offered a unique solution. He proposed that anyone who had business with a minister should, after speaking as briefly as possible, give the minister a sharp tweak of the nose, a kick in the stomach, or a hard pinch of the arm. This physical reminder would be repeated every day until the business was either finished or officially rejected. He also suggested that every senator, after arguing for a particular opinion, should be forced to vote directly against it; this, he claimed, would infallibly result in the best outcome for the public.
To reconcile violent political parties, he offered a truly wonderful contrivance. One might take a hundred leaders from each party and pair them up based on the size of their heads. Two skilled operators would then saw off the back of each man’s skull, dividing the brain equally. By swapping these pieces and attaching them to the head of the opposing party-man, a perfect cure would be achieved. The doctor argued that if two half-brains were left to debate a matter within a single skull, they would soon reach a moderate and sensible understanding.
I also witnessed a heated debate between two professors regarding the most effective way to raise taxes without upsetting the public. The first professor argued that the fairest method would be to tax vice and folly, with the amount being decided by a jury of one’s neighbors. The second professor took the opposite view: he believed we should tax the qualities for which men most value themselves. Wit, bravery, and politeness were to be heavily taxed, and the rate would be determined by each person’s own assessment of their excellence. However, qualities like honor, justice, and wisdom would not be taxed at all, as these are traits that no man recognizes in his neighbor or truly values in himself.
Another professor showed me a set of instructions for discovering conspiracies against the state. He advised government agents to examine the diet and sleeping habits of all suspected persons. Most importantly, he suggested studying their physical waste; he claimed that men are never more serious or thoughtful than when they are on the toilet. Through frequent experiments, he had found that when he thought of murdering the king, his own waste took on a distinct green color, which differed greatly from the color it turned when he merely thought of starting a riot.
Although his discourse was clever, I felt it was incomplete. I ventured to tell the author that I could offer some additional information from my time in the kingdom of Tribnia (which the natives call Langden). In that country, I explained, the population consists largely of informers, accusers, and witnesses, all in the pay of the state. Their plots are usually created by the ministers themselves to strengthen a weak administration or to distract the public from their own discontent.
In Tribnia, agents are trained to find mysterious meanings in ordinary words. For example, they might decide that a "flock of geese" signifies a senate, a "lame dog" an invader, or a "mouse-trap" a government job. If this method fails, they use anagrams. By rearranging the letters of a simple, innocent sentence, they can uncover a hidden message. For instance, if a man writes a letter saying, "Our brother Tom has just got the piles," a skilled agent can prove that those exact same letters actually mean: "Resist; a plot is brought home."
The professor was extremely grateful for these observations and promised to mention me in his book. Having seen all I wished to see in this strange Academy, I realized there was nothing left to invite me to stay. I began, at last, to think of returning home to England.