There are also fine notes of despair, and sweet recollections of the absent mother or sweetheart. Sardinia, a land of brigandism and assassination, has produced numerous criminal songs of interest. “The Corsican songs collected by Tommaseo,” remarks Lombroso, “might be said to be almost all the creation of brigands. Nearly all breathe vengeance for a slain friend, or hatred against an enemy, and admiration for murder.” A ferocious Corsican brigand, named Peverone, who used to leave his mark behind by covering his victim with capsicums (peperoni), wrote verses which, says Lombroso, “would not be unworthy of Laura’s sweet singer.” In such a case as that of Corsica, we must, however, be very cautious how we use the word “criminal.” In that land barbarous conceptions still rule; a child is brought up from its earliest days in an atmosphere of robbery and bloodshed; what in a more civilised country we call “crime” is there to a large extent the normal social state. It is in Corsica that a parish may vote a pension to a brigand (the _commune_ of Ciammance, for example, in 1886); that more than half the persons liable to serve as jurymen in an _arrondissement_ (4400 out of 8000 in one instance) may themselves have appeared behind the bar; and where a mayor (_arrondissement_ of Sartène) may issue a proclamation in the following terms:--“Art. I. The carrying of arms is formally forbidden on the territory of the commune of Levie. Art. II. Exception is made in the case of persons notoriously in a state of enmity.” As a specimen of French criminal literature I will give a poem by Lebiez, the young murderer spoken of in Chapter I.; it is addressed to a young girl’s skull:-- “De quelque belle enfant restes froids et sans vie, Beau crâne apprêté par mes mains, Dont j’ai sali les os et la surface blanchie D’un tas de noms grecs et latins, Compagnon triste et froid de mes heures d’étude, Toi que je viens de rejeter Dans un coin, ah! reviens tromper ma solitude, Réponds à ma curiosité. Dis-moi combien de fois ta bouche s’est offerte Aux doux baisers de ton amant; Dis-moi quels jolis mots de ta bouche entr’ ouverte Dans des heurs d’égarement ... Insensé!... Tu ne peux répondre, pauvre fille; Ta bouche est close maintenant, Et la mort, en passant, de sa triste faucille A brisé tes charmes naissants. Triste leçon pour nons, qui croyons que la vie Peut durer pendant de longs jours! Et jeunesse, et bonheur, et beauté qu’on envie, Tout passe ainsi que les amours! Aussi, quand, vers le soir, âpre et dur à la tache, Je travaille silencieux, Mon esprit suit le monde et, tout inquiet, s’attache A des pensers plus sérieux, Je rêve au temps qui passe ... alors je te regarde, Et, songeant aux coups de destin, Sur ton front nu je crois lire en tremblant: ‘Prends garde, Mortel, ton tour viendra demain.’”