Stanhope,--talking jestingly
upon one of his favourite topics, the differences between himself and
this latter gentleman, and saying that "he believed, after all, the
author's brigade would be ready before the soldier's printing-press."
There was an unusual flush in his face, and from the rapid changes of
his countenance it was manifest that he was suffering under some
nervous agitation. He then complained of being thirsty, and, calling
for some cider, drank of it; upon which, a still greater change being
observable over his features, he rose from his seat, but was unable
to walk, and, after staggering forward a step or two, fell into Mr.
Parry's arms. In another minute, his teeth were closed, his speech
and senses gone, and he was in strong convulsions. So violent,
indeed, were his struggles, that it required all the strength both of
Mr. Parry and his servant Tita to hold him during the fit. His face,
too, was much distorted; and, as he told Count Gamba afterwards, "so
intense were his sufferings during the convulsion, that, had it
lasted but a minute longer, he believed he must have died." The fit
was, however, as short as it was violent; in a few minutes his speech
and senses returned; his features, though still pale and haggard,
resumed their natural shape, and no effect remained from the attack
but excessive weakness. "As soon as he could speak," says Count
Gamba, "he showed himself perfectly free from all alarm; but he very
coolly asked whether his attack was likely to prove fatal. 'Let me
know,' he said; 'do not think I am afraid to die--I am not.'"

This painful event had not occurred more than half an hour, when a
report was brought that the Suliotes were up in arms, and about to
attack the seraglio, for the purpose of seizing the magazines.
Instantly Lord Byron's friends ran to the arsenal; the artillery-men
were ordered under arms; the sentinels doubled, and the cannon loaded
and pointed on the approaches to the gates. Though the alarm proved
to be false, the very likelihood of such an attack shows sufficiently
how precarious was the state of Missolonghi at this moment, and in
what a scene of peril, confusion, and uncomfort, the now nearly
numbered days of England's poet were to close.

On the following morning he was found to be better, but still pale
and weak, and complained much of a sensation of weight in his head.
The doctors, therefore, thought it right to apply leeches to his
temples; but found it di