We have all his poetry at home in a
book.
At this Stephen forgot the silent vows he had been making and burst out:
--Tennyson a poet! Why, he's only a rhymester!
--O, get out! said Heron. Everyone knows that Tennyson is the greatest
poet.
--And who do you think is the greatest poet? asked Boland, nudging his
neighbour.
--Byron, of course, answered Stephen.
Heron gave the lead and all three joined in a scornful laugh.
--What are you laughing at? asked Stephen.
--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, turning 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.
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