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                              PSYCHOLOGIES


                          _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_

                             BOOKS OF VERSE

                            PHILOSOPHIES
                            THE SETTING SUN
                            FABLES

                               NEW NOVEL

                            REVELS OF ORSERA




                        P S Y C H O L O G I E S



                             BY RONALD ROSS


                             [Illustration]




                                 LONDON
                   JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.

                                  1919

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                          ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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                                  NOTE


These five studies are parts of a series of which I hope to publish more
examples at a later date.

The first two originally appeared in _The Nation_ of September 27th and
December 13th, 1913. The last piece contains passages from a drama
called _Edgar_, published in Madras in 1883. _The Marsh_ was intended to
be a melodrama, but the music for it has not yet been developed.

My thanks are due to Mr. John Masefield and Mr. Cloudesley Brereton for
helping me in the correction of the proofs.

                                                         THE AUTHOR.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                CONTENTS


                                           PAGE

                           OTHO               9

                           THE TRIUMPH       14

                           EVIL              22

                           THE MARSH         36

                           THE BOY’S DREAM   52




                             =PSYCHOLOGIES=




                                 =OTHO=


                               OTHO.
                               SOLDIERS.


    [After Otho had been partially defeated by Vitellius, his
    soldiers clamoured to be led again to battle. Otho refused in
    the manner shown here in brief.]

  _Soldiers._ Once more to battle, Otho!

  _Otho._                             No, not for Rome’s sake.

  _Soldiers._ Cæsar, once more!

  _Otho._                      Is Rome forgotten then?

  _Soldiers._ To battle, Cæsar!

  _Big Soldier._               Hear us, little Cæsar!

  _Bearded Soldier._ Are we, then, dogs that Cæsar will not lead us?

  _Soldiers._ Ah!

  _Bearded Soldier._ Did we fly? Are we mercenaries?

  _Soldiers._ Ah!

  _Young Soldier._ Blood, blood, blood!

  _Big Soldier._                      Listen, pretty one, listen!

  _Soldiers._ Once more, Otho, once more!

  _Centurion._                          You mongrels, peace!

  _Small Soldier._ I smoke for battle, Cæsar. I’ll fail thee no more.

  _Soldiers._ God Cæsar, lead us!

  _Young Soldier_(_beating his shield_). Blood, blood,
blood, blood, blood!

  _Soldiers._ To battle, Cæsar!

  _Bearded Soldier._          Are we Egyptians?

  _Centurion._                                Peace!

  _Big Soldier._ Hear, pretty one, hear!

  _Otho._                              For this your love these thanks.
For your great hearts my heart. My blood for yours
As yours would flow for mine. This life for all,
And for my country.

  _Soldier._     Let us die for it then.

  _Another._ These kisses for your feet.

  _Young Soldier_(_gashing his arm_). This blood to wash them!

  _Another_(_doing the same_). And this to keep you Cæsar.

  _Otho._                                                   I am that—
And would not be it. For about the world
The warlike pest is blown, and Cæsar stands
Knee-deep in blood, or is not Cæsar. Cease!
Keep me no more with Fortune. She and I
Are wedded-weary of each other.

  _Soldiers._       War! War!

  _Centurion._ Dogs! Listen while great Cæsar speaks.

  _Soldiers._                                         To war!

  _Old Soldier._ See, Cæsar, how these wounds burst out once more
With blood that clamours to be shed for thee!

  _Otho._ For this great love my thanks, brave hearts. My tears
Do thank you. So my country’s bitter wounds
Burst out with blood once more for me. O there!
Too much already have those dreadful wounds
Bled gouts and gushes of black blood for me—
For nothing. What am I—no god, a man—
To loose the life of myriads and to make
Italy a charnel for a name? Enough.
The battle was against us. Let it be.
The gods have spoken, and love not to warn
In vain. I