The Major was altered certainly, not only in temper, but even in appearance. He had got to look quite aged in the last few weeks. How strange it is that time, so gradual in its effects on the rest of creation, should make its ravages on man by fits and starts, by sudden assaults, so to speak, and _coups-de-main_, instead of the orderly and graduated process of blockade! We see a “wonderfully young-looking man”--we watch him year by year, still as fresh in colour, still as upright in figure and as buoyant in spirits as we recollect him when we were boys--we admire his vigour--we envy him his constitution, and we make minute inquiries as to his daily habits and mode of life--“he never drank anything but sherry,” perhaps, and forthwith we resolve that sherry is the true _elixir vitæ_. All at once something happens--he loses one that he loves--or he has a dangerous illness--or, perhaps, only meets with severe pecuniary losses and disappointments. When we see him again, lo! a few weeks have done the work of years. The ruddy cheek has turned yellow and wrinkled--the merry eye is dim--the strong frame bent and wasted--the man is old in despite of the sherry; and Youth, when once she spreads her wings, comes back no more to light upon the withered branch. Hair has turned grey in a single night. We ourselves can recall an instance of a young girl whose mother died suddenly, and under circumstances of touching pathos. Her daughter, who was devotedly attached to her, was completely stupefied by the blow. All night long she sat with her head resting on her hand, and her long black tresses falling neglected over the arm that supported her throbbing temples. When the day dawned she moved and withdrew her hand. One lock of hair that had remained pressed between her unconscious fingers had turned as _white as snow_. That single lock never recovered its natural hue. Like the Eastern virgins, it mourned in white for a mother.