That is a thing, some will say, that men would not do,—­a proof that the bee, notwithstanding the marvels of its organisation, still is lacking in intellect and veritable consciousness.  Is this so certain?  Other beings, surely, may possess an intellect that differs from ours, and produces different results, without therefore being inferior.  And besides, are we, even in this little human parish of ours, such infallible judges of matters that pertain to the spirit?  Can we so readily divine the thoughts that may govern the two or three people we may chance to see moving and talking behind a closed window, when their words do not reach us?  Or let us suppose that an inhabitant of Venus or Mars were to contemplate us from the height of a mountain, and watch the little black specks that we form in space, as we come and go in the streets and squares of our towns.  Would the mere sight of our movements, our buildings, machines, and canals, convey to him any precise idea of our morality, intellect, our manner of thinking, and loving, and hoping,—­in a word, of our real and intimate self?  All he could do, like ourselves when we gaze at the hive, would be to take note of some facts that seem very surprising; and from these facts to deduce conclusions probably no less erroneous, no less uncertain, than those that we choose to form concerning the bee.

This much at least is certain; our “little black specks “would not reveal the vast moral direction, the wonderful unity, that are so apparent in the hive.  “Whither do they tend, and what is it they do? “he would ask, after years and centuries of patient watching.  “What is the aim of their life, or its pivot?  Do they obey some God?  I can see nothing that governs their actions.  The little things that one day they appear to collect and build up, the next they destroy and scatter.  They come and they go, they meet and disperse, but one knows not what it is they seek.  In numberless cases the spectacle they present is altogether inexplicable.  There are some, for instance, who, as it were, seem scarcely to stir from their place.  They are to be distinguished by their glossier coat, and often too by their more considerable bulk.  They occupy buildings ten or twenty times larger than ordinary dwellings, and richer, and more ingeniously fashioned.  Every day they spend many hours at their meals, which sometimes indeed are prolonged far into the night.  They appear to be held in extraordinary honour by those who approach them; men come from the neighbouring houses, bringing provisions, and even from the depths of the country, laden with presents.  One can only assume that these persons must be indispensable to the race, to which they render essential service, although our means of investigation have not yet enabled us to discover what the precise nature of this service may be.  There are others, again, who are incessantly engaged in the most wearisome labour, whether it be in great sheds full of wheels that forever turn round