His youth has been,
that of a dreamy recluse, the scorn of men of the world. 'Oh, fear him
not, my lord,' says one of them to the Earl of Flanders:
--'His father's name
Is all that from his father[6] he derives.
He is a man of singular address
In catching river fish. His life hath been
Till now, more like a peasant's or a monk's,
Than like the issue of so great a man.'
Similarly the earl himself describes him as 'a man that as much
knowledge has of war as I of brewing mead--a bookish nursling of the
monks--a meacock.' But when the last scene of all has closed his
strange eventful history, the testimony of a nobler, wiser foe,[7]
ascribes to him great gifts of courage, discretion, wit, an equal
temper, an ample soul, rock-bound and fortified against assaults of
transitory passion, but founded on a surging subterranean fire that
stirs him to lofty enterprise--a man prompt, capable, and calm,
wanting nothing in soldiership except good-fortune. Ever tempted to
reverie, he yet refuses, even for one little hour, to yield up the
weal of Flanders to idle thought or vacant retrospect.
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