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If you find Milton, Dante, Calderon, Goethe, so much "Hebrew-Greek" to you; if your Homer and Virgil, your Molière and Scott, rest year after year undisturbed on their shelves beside your school trigonometry and your old college text-books; if you have never opened the Cid, the Nibelungen, Crusoe, and Don Quixote since you were a boy, and are wont to leave the Bible and the Imitation for some wet Sunday afternoon know, friend, that your reading can do you little real good.
What sweet names are Thine! How could Nietzsche not feel the music of that Hebrew-Greek combination? Perhaps he did; perhaps he masked a profound love behind his hatred. Jesus our Lord! Hebrew-Greek. But why Greek? Why ...?" Another pause in this sequestered chamber where the buzzing of an insect could assume a thunderous roar. "The eternal return. Why should Christ return?
All this, of course, was so much 'Hebrew-Greek, as honest Father Roach was wont to phrase it, to the scared women. 'What's your name? 'Moggy Sullivan, if you please, Ma'am. 'And what's yours? 'Lizabet Betty they call me Madam; Lizabet Burke, if you please, Madam. 'Well, then, Moggy Sullivan and Elizabeth Burke, harkee both, while I tell you a thing.
During the processions they trilled and quavered most melodiously betwixt their teeth I do not know what antiphones, or chantings, by turns. For my part, 'twas all Hebrew-Greek to me, the devil a word I could pick out on't; at last, pricking up my ears, and intensely listening, I perceived they only sang with the tip of theirs. Oh, what a rare harmony it was!
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