Page 98 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

—You, said Heron. Byron the greatest poet! He’s only a
poet for uneducated people.
—He must be a fine poet! said Boland.
—You may keep your mouth shut, said Stephen, turn-
ing on him boldly. All you know about poetry is what you
wrote up on the slates in the yard and were going to be sent
to the loft for.
Boland, in fact, was said to have written on the slates in
the yard a couplet about a classmate of his who often rode
home from the college on a pony:
As Tyson was riding into Jerusalem He fell and hurt his
Alec Kafoozelum.
This thrust put the two lieutenants to silence but Heron
went on:
—In any case Byron was a heretic and immoral too.
—I don’t care what he was, cried Stephen hotly.
—You don’t care whether he was a heretic or not? said
Nash.
—What do you know about it? shouted Stephen. You
never read a line of anything in your life except a trans, or
Boland either.
—I know that Byron was a bad man, said Boland.
—Here, catch hold of this heretic, Heron called out. In a
moment Stephen was a prisoner.
—Tate made you buck up the other day, Heron went on,
about the heresy in your essay.
—I’ll tell him tomorrow, said Boland.
—Will you? said Stephen. You’d be afraid to open your
lips.

98 A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man