The capital of the Estremenian pig-districts is _Montanches_--mons anguis--and doubtless the hilly spot where the Duke of Arcos fed and cured “ces petits jambons vermeils,” which the Duc de St. Simon ate and admired so much; “ces jambons ont un parfum si admirable, un goût si relevé et si vivifiant, qu’on en est surpris: il est impossible de rien manger si exquis.” His Grace of Arcos used to shut up the pigs in places abounding in vipers, on which they fattened. Neither the pigs, dukes, nor their toadeaters seem to have been poisoned by these exquisite vipers. According to Jonas Barrington, the finest Irish pigs were those that fed on dead rebels: one Papist porker, the Enniscorthy boar, was sent as a show, for having eaten a Protestant parson: he was put to death and dishonoured by not being made bacon of.
Naturalists have remarked that the rattlesnakes in America retire before their consuming enemy, the pig, who is thus the _gastador_ or pioneer of the new world’s civilization, just as Pizarro, who was suckled by a sow, and tended swine in his youth, was its conqueror. Be that as it may, Montanches is illustrious in pork, in which the burgesses go the whole hog, whether in the rich red sausage, the _chorizo_, or in the savoury piquant _embuchados_, which are akin to the _mortadelle_ of Bologna, only less hard, and usually boiled before eating, though good also raw; they consist of the choice bits of the pig seasoned with condiments, with which, as if by retribution, the paunch of the voracious animal is filled; the ruling passion strong in death. We strongly recommend _Juan Valiente_, who recently was the alcalde of the town, to the lover of delicious hams; each _jamon_ averages about 12 lb.; they are sold at the rate of 7½ _reales_, about 18_d._; for the _libra carnicera_, which weighs 32 of our ounces. The duties in England are now very trifling; we have for many years had an annual supply of these delicacies, through the favour of a kind friend at the _Puerto_. The fat of these _jamones_, whence our word ham and gammon, when they are boiled, looks like melted topazes, and the flavour defies language, although we have dined on one this very day, in order to secure accuracy and undeniable prose, like Lope de Vega, who, according to his biographer, Dr. Montalvan, never could write poetry unless inspired by a rasher; “Toda es cosa vil,” said he, “á donde falta un _pernil_” (in which word we recognize the precise _perna_, whereby Horace was restored):--