And is it I
That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou
Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark
Of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers,
That ride upon the violent speed of fire,
Fly with false aim! move the still-piercing air,
That sings with piercing, do not touch my lord!
Whoever shoots at him, I set him there;
Whoever charges on his forward breast,
I am the caitiff that do hold him to it;
And though I kill him not, I am the cause
His death was so effected; better 'twere
I met the ravin lion when he roared
With sharp constraint of hunger; better 'twere
That all the miseries which nature owes,
Were mine at once.

No, no, although
The air of paradise did fan the house,
And angels officed all; I will be gone.

Though I cannot go the length of those who have defended Bertram on
almost every point, still I think the censure which Johnson has passed
on the character is much too severe. Bertram is certainly not a pattern
hero of romance, but full of faults such as we meet with every day in
men of his age and class. He is a bold, ardent, self-willed youth, just
dismissed into the world from domestic indulgence, with an excess of
aristocratic and military pride, but not without some sense of true
honor and generosity. I have lately read a defence of Bertram's
character, written with much elegance and plausibility. "The young
Count," says this critic, "comes before us possessed of a good heart,
and of no mean capacity, but with a haughtiness which threatens to dull
the kinder passions, and to cloud the intellect. This is the inevitable
consequence of an illustrious education. The glare of his birthright has
dazzled his young faculties. Perhaps the first words he could
distinguish were from the important nurse, giving elaborate directions
about his lordship's pap. As soon as he could walk, a crowd of
submissive vassals doffed their caps, and hailed his first appearance on
his legs. His spelling book had the arms of the family emblazoned on the
cover. He had been accustomed to hear himself called the great, the
mighty son of Roussillon, ever since he was a helpless child. A
succession of complacent tutors would by no means destroy the illusion;
and it is from their hands that Shakspeare receives him, while yet in
his minority. An overweening pride of birth is Bertram's great foible.
To cure him of this, Shakspeare