As soon as we can find gradations, or a sufficient number of
uniting links between two things, they become united or made one
thing, and any classification of them must be illusory.
Classification is only possible where there is a shock given to the
senses by reason of a perceived difference, which, if it is
considerable, can be expressed in words. When the world was
younger and less experienced, people were shocked at what appeared
great differences between living forms; but species, whether of
animals or plants, are now seen to be so united, either
inferentially or by actual finding of the links, that all
classification is felt to be arbitrary. The seasons are like
species--they were at one time thought to be clearly marked, and
capable of being classified with some approach to satisfaction. It
is now seen that they blend either in the present or the past
insensibly into one another, and cannot be classified except by
cutting Gordian knots in a way which none but plain sensible people
can tolerate. Strictly speaking, there is only one place, one
time, one action, and one individual or thing; of this thing or
individual each one of us is a part. It is perplexing, but it is
philosophy; and modem philosophy like modern music is nothing if it
is not perplexing.

A simple verification of the autumnal character of rhubarb may, at
first sight, appear to be found in Covent Garden Market, where we
can actually see the rhubarb towards the end of October. But this
way of looking at the matter argues a fatal ineptitude for the
pursuit of true philosophy. It would be a most serious error to
regard the rhubarb that will appear in Covent Garden Market next
October as belonging to the autumn then supposed to be current.