Could I disarm criticism as easily as I can deprive Bees of their power to sting, this would be the proper place to do so; though I am doubtful whether it would be well-judged in me, or to my advantage, to stay the critics' pen. But, possessing no such talismanic power, I shall adventure my little book into the world, without any attempt to conciliate the critics' good-will, or to provoke their animosity, conscious that from fair criticism I have nothing to fear. That I shall be attacked by those apiarians who are wedded to their own theories and systems, however faulty, is no more than I expect: of them, I trust, I have nowhere spoken disparagingly; towards none of them do I entertain unkindly feelings—far otherwise. Their number, I am led to believe, is not formidable; and as gentlemen, and fellow-labourers in the same work of humanity, their more extensive learning will hardly be brought to bear against me with rancour and violence. Should any one of them, or of any other class of writers, so far degrade himself, I shall have the advantage of the following preliminary observation, viz. that one set of my collateral-boxes, placed in a favourable situation, and duly and properly attended to, for one season only, will outweigh all the learning and arguments that can be adduced against my Bee-practice,—will be proof positive, visible, tangible, that there is in my pretensions something more than empty boast. Luckily for me, there are plenty of those proofs to be met with in the country, and there are some—several, not far from town; they are at Blackheath, at Kensington, at Clapham, and at other places. As hundreds of the Nobility and Gentry of this country will recollect, there was one of these incontrovertible proofs of the truth of what I am stating, exhibited for several weeks at the National Repository last autumn, where it was seen, examined, admired, and, I may without any exaggeration add, universally approved. Practice, which has resulted from more than ten years' experience in the management of an apiary, and from innumerable experiments, carried on, and a hundred times repeated, during that period, is what I ground the utility of my discoveries upon. To theory I lay no claim. Born and brought up in the fens of Lincolnshire, where I have spent the greater part of my life amidst difficulties, misfortunes, and hardships, of which I will not here complain, though I am still smarting under the effects of some of them, my pretensions to learning are but small: for, though sent to the respectable Grammar School at Horncastle in my boyhood, my education was not extended beyond writing, arithmetic, and merchants' accompts. As soon as it was thought that I had acquired a competent knowledge of these useful branches of education, it was my lot to be bound apprentice to learn the trades and mysteries of grocer, draper, and tallow-chandler. Whilst endeavouring to gain an honest livelihood as a grocer and draper, at Moulton-Chapel, in 1822, I was afflicted with a severe illness, which, after long-protracted suffering, left me as helpless as a child, the natural use and strength of my limbs being gone; and, though supported by and tottering between my crutches, it was a long time before I was able to crawl into my garden. Fatigued and exhausted with the exercise of journeying the length of a garden-walk of no great extent, it was my custom to rest my wearied limbs upon a bench placed near my Bees. Seated on that bench, I used to while away the lingering hours as best I could, ruminating now on this subject, now on that, just as my fancy chanced to fix. Among other things my Bees one day caught my attention: I watched their busy movements,—their activity pleased me,—their humming noise long-listened to became music to my ears, and I often fancied that I heard it afterwards when I was away from them. In short, I became fond of them and of their company, and visited them as often as the weather and my feebleness would permit. When kept from them a day or two, I felt uneasy, and less comfortable than when I could get to them. The swarming season arrived; and with it ideas took possession of my mind which had not until then possessed it:—I conceived that swarming was an act more of necessity than of choice,—that as such it was an evil; but how to provide a remedy for it—how to prevent it—was a problem that then puzzled me. I studied it for a long time, and to very little purpose. The old-fashioned method of eking did not by any means satisfy my mind; it might answer the purpose for one season, but how to proceed the next did not appear. Then the time for taking honey was approaching: to get at that treasure without destroying my little friends that had collected it, and that had, moreover, so often soothed me in my sorrow and my sufferings, was another problem that long engaged my mind. After some years' unremitted attention to my Bees, for I had formed a sort of attachment to them during the first stage of my convalescence, which never left me, an accident aided my studies by directing my attention to the effects of ventilation, as will be found related in the body of this work, and I began to make experiments, which being repeated, varied, improved, and then gone through again, have gradually led to the development of my improved mode of Bee-management, attempted to be explained in the following pages.

At the time I have been speaking of, I had not read one single book on Bees; nor had I then one in my possession. Whatever my practice may be, it has resulted from my own unaided experience and discoveries. To books I am not indebted for any part of it: nay, had I begun to attempt to improve the system of Bee-management by books, I verily believe, I never should have improved it at all, nor have made one useful discovery. The Bees themselves have been my instructors. After I had so far succeeded as to have from my apiary glasses and boxes of honey of a superior quality, to exhibit at the National Repository, where, with grateful thanks to the Managers of that Institution for their kindness to me, I was encouraged to persevere, Bee-books in profusion were presented to me, some of them by friends with names, some by friends whose names I have yet to learn. I have read them all: but nowhere find, in any of them, clear, practical directions, how honey of the very purest quality, and in more considerable quantity than by any of the plans heretofore proposed, may be taken from Bees, without recourse to any suffocation whatever, or any other violent means;—how all the Bees may be preserved uninjured;—and how swarming may be prevented. These are the grand features in my plan; and minute directions for the accomplishment of these most desirable objects are laid down in this book.

I by no means maintain that my system of Bee-management is incapable of improvement; but I do think that the principles upon which it is founded are right,—that the foundation is here properly laid,—and that every apiarian, who may hereafter conform to, or improve upon, my practice, will be instrumental in contributing a part towards raising the superstructure—namely—an asylum or sanctuary for Honey-Bees.

I cannot close this preface without acknowledging myself to be under the greatest obligations to the Rev. T. Clark, of Gedney-Hill. But for his assistance the following work would not have made its appearance in its present form; if indeed it had appeared at all. He has revised, corrected, connected, and arranged the materials of which it is composed; and he has, moreover, gratuitously added much that is original and valuable from his own rich stores of knowledge. To him I am indebted for the selection of the Latin mottos. As an apiarian he is one of my most improved and skilful pupils, and bids fair to become an ornament to the science of Bee-management. As a mechanic he is ingenious enough to make his own Bee-boxes, and has actually made some of the very best I have yet seen. To his knowledge of mechanics it is owing that the description and explanation of each of the different boxes, of all the other parts of my Bee-machinery, and of my observatory-hive, in particular, are more detailed, clearer, and more intelligible than they would have been in my hands. As a scholar there are passages in the following work that afford no mean specimen of his abilities. I have only to regret that the reward for the pains he has taken with it must be my thanks—that it is not in my power to remunerate him for his kind labours more substantially than by this public acknowledgement of the obligations I am under, and of my sense of the debt of gratitude that is due to him.