one thought, is scattered and united.  It stands in lieu of the sun and the flowers, till its elder brother, the veritable sun of the real, great spring, peering through the half-open door, glides in his first softened glances, wherein anemones and violets are coming to life again; and gently awakens the workers, showing them that the sky once more is blue in the world, and that the uninterrupted circle that joins death to life has turned and begun afresh.

VIII

THE PROGRESS OF THE RACE

[97]

Before closing this book—­as we have closed the hive on the torpid silence of winter—­I am anxious to meet the objection invariably urged by those to whom we reveal the astounding industry and policy of the bees.  Yes, they will say, that is all very wonderful; but then, it has never been otherwise.  The bees have for thousands of years dwelt under remarkable laws, but during those thousands of years the laws have not varied.  For thousands of years they have constructed their marvellous combs, whereto we can add nothing, wherefrom we can take nothing,—­combs that unite in equal perfection the science of the chemist, the geometrician, the architect, and the engineer; but on the sarcophagi, on Egyptian stones and papyri, we find drawings of combs that are identical in every particular.  Name a single fact that will show the least progress, a single instance of their having contrived some new feature or modified their habitual routine, and we will cheerfully yield, and admit that they not only possess an admirable instinct, but have also an intellect worthy to approach that of man, worthy to share in one knows not what higher destiny than awaits unconscious and submissive matter.

This language is not even confined to the profane; it is made use of by entomologists of the rank of Kirby and Spence, in order to deny the bees the possession of intellect other than may vaguely stir within the narrow prison of an extraordinary but unchanging instinct.  “Show us,” they say, “a single case where the pressure of events has inspired them with the idea, for instance, of substituting clay or mortar for wax or propolis; show us this, and we will admit their capacity for reasoning.”

This argument, that Romanes refers to as the “question-begging argument,” and that might also be termed the “insatiable argument,” is exceedingly dangerous, and, if applied to man, would take us very far.  Examine it closely, and you find that it emanates from the “mere common-sense,” which is often so harmful; the “common-sense” that replied to Galileo:  “The earth does not turn, for I can see the sun move in the sky, rise in the morning and sink in the evening; and nothing can prevail over the testimony of my eyes.”  Common-sense makes an admirable, and necessary, background for the mind; but unless it be watched by a lofty disquiet ever ready to remind it, when occasion demand,