“Prima sedes, corona regis, et regni caput.”
As we approached Palermo the pulse of life quickened; at every station carloads of merchandise awaited transportation, golden oranges, paler gold citrons, sacks of almonds, casks of wine, vast quantities of sumach.
At Castel Termini, near the great sulphur mines, stood long freight trains laden with huge fragments of beautiful yellow sulphur.
“Remember that day the smoke lifted and we got a good look into the crater of Vesuvius?” said Patsy. “You were very much taken up with the pale yellow velvet lining of the crater, and wanted to rip it out for an opera cloak. That brimstone is exactly the same color; I suppose it’s the same stuff.”
At Acquaviva there were more freight trains loaded with blocks of sparkling rock salt.
“Salt must be cheaper here than in Rome,” said Patsy. “When I asked your Agnese for a handful to put in the electric battery, she was horrified at my extravagance.”
“Agnese buys it by the pound at the tobacconist’s; it costs like gold dust.”
Here a fat gentleman reared up from his nest of newspapers in the corner. “Salt is free in Sicily,” he said; “we do not tax it as they do in Italy. For a few soldi you can buy a kilo of the best, the most fine. What you see is mineral salt, virgin salt, and comes from a cave in the top of the mountain; there is none to compare with it!”
“There is no salt tax in Sicily,” said a small neat man who looked an avvocato. “It would be useless; each one would then make his own. You need only take water from the sea, put it in a pan, set it in the sun—via! the water evaporates, and leaves salt as good as this!”
“Not so good!” roared the fat man, “miserable, inferior salt!” The veins in his neck swelled with anger.