Nobles, discretes varones,Que gobernais á Toledo,En aquellas escalones,Desechad las aficiones,Codicio temor, y miedo,For los comunes provechos,Dejad los particulares;Pues vos fizo Dios pilaresDe tan riquisimos techos,Estad firmes y derechos.
Nobles, discretes varones,Que gobernais á Toledo,En aquellas escalones,Desechad las aficiones,Codicio temor, y miedo,For los comunes provechos,Dejad los particulares;Pues vos fizo Dios pilaresDe tan riquisimos techos,Estad firmes y derechos.
Nobles, discretes varones,Que gobernais á Toledo,En aquellas escalones,Desechad las aficiones,Codicio temor, y miedo,For los comunes provechos,Dejad los particulares;Pues vos fizo Dios pilaresDe tan riquisimos techos,Estad firmes y derechos.
The Summer Council Chamber is handsomely decorated withazulejos, and contains some battle pictures. The portraits of Carlos II. and his wife are the work of Carreño.
The celebrated Bridge of Alcantara, of which mention has so often been made in these pages, belongs indifferently to all the epochs of Toledo’s history, so no apology is needed for mentioning it here. “It constitutes to-day as in the past,” writes Amador de los Rios, “the principal entrance to the city, and, constructed very wisely on one of the narrowest parts of the river, it is formed of a great central arch of more than twenty-eight metres inbreadth, resting on the right on a solid pile, often demolished, behind which is a smaller semicircular arch, which is, in turn, sustained by the bridge head, founded on the rock and pierced by a still smaller arch or passage, where several Visigothic remains have been discovered.” At the outer or country end of the historic bridge formerly stood a fortified tower, which was in 1787 replaced by the existing structure. This is in a pretentious style, and is decorated with various inscriptions, among them one commemorating the building by order of Philip V. The majestic hexagonal tower on the town side, with its picturesque turrets, dates probably from 1259. Above it is a statue of St. Ildefonso, by Berruguete. Over the archway are sculptured the badges of Ferdinand and Isabel (the yoke and bundle of arrows), commemorating the restoration of the tower, in 1489, by Gomez Manrique. A noble bridge is this of Alcantara; old—old as the city—the work of all Toledo’s rulers, and like Toledo, grim, stern, rude, destined, it would seem, to endure for ever. Romans, Visigoths, Moors and Castilians have lingered on it, triumphed on it, fled across it, fought upon it, and across it to-day must walk every traveller entering with reverence this great temple of the mediæval and bygone.
BY
Albert F. Calvert and C. Gasquoine Hartley
Domeniko Theotokopuli,[A]known to us to-day as El Greco, was the first great painter of Spain, and in his strange and fascinating art, the Spanish School compels for the first time the attention of the world. And El Greco was not Spanish. He was born in Crete, it would seem about the year 1548, and died at Toledo in 1614. Learning his art in Venice, in his early manner he is a pure Venetian, owing much to the work of the Bassani, and more to the inspiration of Tintoretto, but in Toledo he became Spanish and himself, developing there a manner in which the special temper of the race finds an expression passionate enough, not equalled again, indeed, until the advent of Goya.
There will always be some men imaginative, entirely personal, who, like El Greco, seek to express themselves, and in so doing, quite unwittingly probably, express the life of their age. Havingthe interpretative—creative would perhaps be the truer word—genius, their work becomes, as it were, a mirror, which reflects not the man alone, but the circumstances that have formed his life. For, after all, what the artist does is to use up what he has seen.
This is why El Greco seems to chronicle for us our impressions of Toledo, and of Spain.
Surely no other painter has lived in a city in such strong agreement with his spirit. Think of the place—wind-swept, heat-dried, extraordinarily austere, yet flushed with colour, ochre-red shading to unusual greens; heaped upon its rocky throne above the yellow flowing Tagus, its rugged silhouette straight cut against a sky hard and clear as enamel; and, beyond, the sierra like a great brown sea in which it all stands as an island starting from the waves. A suggestion of strenuousness seems to linger everywhere, a spirit, personal and keen, cruel almost as the sword-blades the city fashions. The very buildings, placed upon the crags beneath the great hulk of the Alcazar, repeat this impression, they rise in sharp upward and downward lines like an arrangement of swords, and make their appeal by the strange strength of their aspect. The streets are a tortuous net of steep-rising passage-ways. A city strongly itself that has suffered no change, fantastic as a city seen in a dream.
Yes, to those who know Toledo, the impression of the character of the city upon El Greco will bring no surprise. His art corresponds perfectly with its setting. Everywhere his work is around you, for El Greco is one of those painters who has but a single home. He built churches and other buildings—the classic façade of the Ayuntamiento, for instance, was modelled on his design; he carved statues, he painted pictures, there are canvases of his in the museum, in the cathedral, and in many of the churches. And in all this mass of work, it is the living force behind it that is the first impression that you gain; a kind of driving power that fascinates you, just as Toledo fascinates you, by reason of its power. El Greco was a painter able to create—that is the secret of it all. And, be it remembered, the artist does not find his matter straight from the springs of his brain, what he is able to see he sets down, and that is all. His art is great in exact measure as it is able to transfer this vision from him to us. In this way El Greco, to whom vision seems to have been the whole of life, does in his pictures transfer to us the entire impression of Toledo, so that it is difficult to speak of his art without making Toledo the refrain.
And as we wait with his pictures and note, after the first surprise has left us, the qualities of the work, throughout they confirm this. The veryform of his composition is moulded upon Toledo. Just as its buildings cluster around the Alcazar, almost as bees swarming about their queen, so he groups everything around a central figure. Never, after he came to Toledo, did El Greco use Italian backgrounds. And in his long, lithe figures, so fantastic in their hard outlines, sometimes we catch that suggestion of the sword that haunts Toledo. Then when we come to more tangible things, we find to-day El Greco’s models in the dark peasants of Toledo. Nowhere else can we quite believe in the reality of those coldly fervent, self-absorbed, ecstatic men, who greet us with such fascination from his canvases, their lean, long profiles suggesting again that aspect of a sword.
Then, El Greco’s colour was drawn from the landscape around him. And colour, if we may credit the truth of the conversation recounted by Pacheco, was to him the one quality in painting, form, drawing, all else, being of secondary significance. This, too, was learnt in Toledo, where colour has an allurement—illusive and insistent. Toledo it was showed him the existence of cold tones, and the fascination of its greys and livid greens led him to anticipate modern colour, at a time when every one else was painting warm tonalities. In the Convent of San Juan de los Reyes, now the Museo Provincial, is that ‘Bird’s-Eye Viewof Toledo,’ the picture in which we have a portrait of George Manuel Theotokopuli, El Greco’s son. At first you will be astonished, it is the strangest landscape in the world. But wait with the picture—always the danger with El Greco is that you will not linger enough. The painter who sees for himself must be studied, not dismissed as he who but sets down the common vision of things. And El Greco does give us the real Toledo in this fantastic landscape. Do you doubt this? Then go when night falls upon the city to some such vantage-point as the Puerta del Cambón, where beneath the dome of the evening sky you will see Toledo, heaped roof against roof, tower against tower. You will forget the strangeness of the picture’s statement, as you come to see that it is just this effect that El Greco has caught. Now you will recognise the reality of those bluish whites, those tones of green that surprised you, and, in gladness, you will yield to the truth, the beauty—are not the two the same?—of the painter’s vision, and avow how much he has taught you to see.
Always El Greco’s pictures leave an impression of their own upon the spectator; and this is the test of vital work. It is personality that counts in art. Whether he paints the visible truth of outward things, as in his portraits—that wonderful series in the Prado, for instance, inwhich he startles us with his revelation of his model—or pure fancies of the mind, as ‘The Vision of Philip II.,’ in the Escorial, a picture that would seem to have no conscious reference to things seen, one feels that he had something definite to express. And although his style at first may have been formed largely on that of the great Venetian painters, of Tintoretto especially—a “sort of shorthand of the Venetian,” Mr. Ricketts calls it—in all his pictures there is but one personality—that of himself. At the back of his art was a force of passionate character—unbalanced? Yes! capricious and arbitrary; a tyrannical need that compelled expression. But in spite of his singular conventions and, from a theorist’s point of view, the strangeness and exaggeration of his qualities, he does convey his meaning, splendidly effective, if not the best. And because of this intensity of vision we have those pictures of exaggerated statement that give credit to the fable of the painter’s madness, such as the ‘St. John the Baptist,’ in the Hospital San Juan Bautista, a picture which many have found ugly, while the few see in its new conception a striving for personal utterance, and find many things in its suggestion.
El Greco stumbled in his methods maybe, never in his purpose, which was, it would seem to us, the significance of movement. All his strangeskill, the power of his imagination, his new knowledge of colour and light, are used in this service, to bring home to us the vision of movement that everywhere he saw. Even in his portraits it is this that holds us. There is something more in them than the outward likeness; there is a power of reaching to and showing us the unquiet spirit within. He makes his portraits live and speak. This quality is present in all his work. Every picture is built up by its effect; and this effect is movement—life. By concentrating on a particular passage, by a contempt for detail and peddling accuracy, he directs our minds to this principal thing. His interest, as it were, compels ours; he realises his vision and makes us share in his imagination.
But it may be said that in many of these pictures the effect is forced; in the ‘St. Maurice,’ the rejected altar-piece of the Escorial, for instance, in the ‘Baptism of Christ’ and the ‘Descent of the Holy Spirit,’ in the Prado, and in many pictures in Toledo, easily recognised, in which realities are replaced by a series of conventions. It is not necessary to wait to particularise examples. Certainly one does not see in the pictures of other painters those greens, those ashen whites and crimsons, those livid blacks; El Greco’s use of colour is unusual and his own. Light is not used as he uses it, as a quantityfor emotional appeal; those faces, so elongated or contracted, and with such extravagant expressions, those figures with hard anatomical outlines, do not correspond with life as we see it. Yes, this is true. But look longer at these pictures.... Well, would it be possible to gain theireffectswithout thedefects? If things are forced out of harmony it is for the sake of “telling strongly.” All this search for expression is done quite consciously. El Greco throughout was strong enough to be true to himself and to his imagination. He knew that no system of art is final, that the achievements of artists are, in truth, the stones wherewith the Temple of Art is built. Imagination does not see commonplaces. And we recall the statement of Blake—he, too, a painter of visions of the mind: “He who does not imagine in stronger and better lineaments, and in stronger and better light, than his perishing mortal eye can see, does not imagine at all.”
El Greco might have said these words.
And the man? There is a portrait Domeniko Theotokopuli has left of himself now in the Museum of Seville. In it we see the long, striking profile, with its large, strong nose, restless eyes and straight mouth, cruel slightly, framed by the great white ruff that forms such fitting setting to the fine head. The forehead is high, the dark hair scant upon the temples. We may read inthe face, and still more in the perfectly shaped hands—the left holds a square palette upon which are the five primary colours, white, black, yellow-ochre, vermilion, and lake, the colours he used most frequently—the fastidiousness of the artist, the instinct for beauty; we may read a peculiar suggestion of mysticism and ardour; self-assertion, too, and impatience—both wait in those long, nervous fingers. It is a face of genius, but of a kind restless, unbalanced, decadent perhaps. And we understand the driving energy that burned to fever, so that at times the balance was lost between the painter’s aim and the result, and we realise that the work of such a man must be introspective, experimental, neurotic.
We know nothing almost of El Greco’s life, and if external happenings were all, the most original painter of Spain would remain an unexplained personality. His very name is uncertain, and contemporary writers, disregarding the Theotokopuli, speak of him as Domeniko Greco. We do not know the year in which he was born, for the information given by Palomino in “El Museo” must certainly be questioned, no register of his birth as yet having been found among the Cretan archives, or in the parochial books of the Greek colony in Venice, the city in which it seems certain that he lived—a pupil, we may well think, of Tintoretto, rather than of Titian; and this inspite of the letter of his friend and compatriot the miniature-painter, Clovio,[B]in which Clovio speaks of the young Greek painter’s skill, tells of his coming to Rome, and, after commending him to the patronage of the Cardinal Nepote Farnese, refers to his having learnt his art from the greatest Venetian. But the testimony of his work gives more truth than this statement; his early pictures, their authorship so long unknown, again and again have been attributed to Tintoretto, to Bassano, to Veronese even, never to Titian.
That El Greco was a Cretan we know by his signature, always in Greek, on many pictures, Λομήνικος Θεοτοκόπουλος Κρήσεποίει—the ‘SanMaurice,’ in the Escorial, is one. And again, when called, in 1582, by the Tribunal of the Inquisition to act as interpreter in the case of a Cretan accused of being a Morisco, he describes himself as “Domeniko Theotokopuli, native of Candia, painter, resident in Toledo,” as we learn from a document discovered by Señor Cossio, to whose research, and to that of Señor Foradada and of Señor de Beruete, we owe the few discovered facts of El Greco’s life.
We know that Domeniko Greco came to Toledo some time before 1577, and in that year he was at work in the convent of Santo Domingo el Antigua, where the Church was built and its statues carved by him, and where he painted the screens of the fine retablo; that further, he would seem never to have left Toledo; that he married there, and had a son, George Manuel, who was architect and sculptor to the cathedral from 1628 to his death in 1631, and also a daughter, whose portrait figures in several pictures—in ‘Christ Despoiled of his Vestments,’ in the cathedral, for one; that he died in Toledo, and was buried in Santo Domingo el Antigua on April 7, 1614[C]—and that is about all. We have record of much work—Toledo still has more than fifty Grecos—and there were pictures painted for the small town of Illescas, and also for Madrid. We read of two lawsuits, one undertaken to compel the Cathedral Chapter to pay in full for the ‘Expolio,’[D]the second to vindicate the painter’s right to sell his pictures without paying the tax levied upon merchandise. These lawsuits, his pictures, with their dates and signatures, certain contracts and receipts, are the few facts to be reported.
It would seem that this strange, self-contained life wished to be silent; for it is perhaps not too fanciful to read this meaning into that answer given by El Greco when asked, in connectionwith the writ served on him for the ‘Expolio,’ whether he had been brought to Toledo to paint the retablo of Santo Domingo: “I am neither bound to say why I came to this city nor to answer the other questions put to me.” Here we gain hints of certain very real traits of character.
And, if the facts of his life are meagre enough, we can find suggestions of this same temper, silent, yet passionate, in that visit of Pacheco to the Toledan painter when he was old, in 1611, of which we have spoken before. Pacheco tells us that El Greco was a student of many things, a writer on art, a great philosopher given to witty sayings, a sculptor and architect as well as a painter. He writes of much work thathe saw, and speaks in particular of a cupboard in which were models in clay of each picture El Greco had finished. The two painters talked on many subjects, of colour and its supreme quality in painting, of Michael Angelo and his failure as a colourist. But in all the account of Pacheco, always so minutely laborious, it is significant to note in one sentence the impression he formed of Domeniko Greco: “He was in all things as singular as in his painting.”
Nor will it do to overlook the testimony of Giuseppe Martinez, whose “Practical Letters on the Art of Painting,” though not printed until 1866, were written a century before. He too speaks of Domeniko Greco as of extravagant disposition, and in proof recounts that he engaged musicians to play to him that he might “enjoy an additional luxury during meals.” The prudent Aragonese condemns this “too much ostentation,” but we capture again some fresh clues and hints of this strangely effective personality—a fanatic of life, a fanatic of painting.
But we have not settled the account of genius when we have called it unusual, fanatic, or decadent. It is the solution of the dull that genius is extravagant consciously. El Greco can have had no desire, no power, to repeat the easy, the commonplace. If strange, exaggerated even, his art is without a trace of affectation. When hepainted a vision he felt it natural to symbolise his idea in the way that he did. In colour, in form, he painted only what his imagination saw, gaining in colour fresh harmonies for himself, and a new suggestion of movement in his imaginative compositions, to which our imagination must find answer.
El Greco understood all nature as a Living Presence; his art was a series of experiments to express this. And every one must be struck with the peculiar development of this special personality in his art from stage to stage—stages that with sufficient accuracy may be divided into three periods.
The first is the pupil’s search for truth; the Venetian stage, in which we find a consciousness of tradition, showing itself in the still-fettered design, in the attitudes of the figures, in the use of warm colour, in a flowing quality in the paint, and, especially perhaps, in the landscape backgrounds, so Venetian with palaces and marble-paved piazzas; yet mingled with all this tradition is an emphatic personality, an ardour of expression, very difficult to define, seen in such early pictures as ‘The Blind Man,’ in the Parma Gallery, or ‘The Cardinal,’ in the National Gallery, both painted before 1577. Over the whole Venetian period the influence of Tintoretto is obvious; while the portraits of these yearsrecall in their method the work of the Bassani; and of the pre-Spanish pictures, as, for instance, the ‘Cleansing of the Temple,’[E]now in the possession of the Countess of Yarborough, and the replica of the same subject on a small scale, in the Cook collection at Richmond, Surrey, a picture of real beauty that testifies to El Greco’s skill in miniature—these, and many other works, were thought until quite recently to be the work of the Venetians, the first being attributed to Paul Veronese, the latter to Tintoretto, and this in spite of their marked character.
And the Venetian influence remained in the first years in Toledo. It is seen in the beautiful Virgin in the early ‘Assumption,’ painted for the central altar-screen of Santo Domingo el Antigua, but now in the Prado.[F]But the chief work of this period is the ‘Christ Despoiled of His Vestments,’ still in the sacristy of the cathedral in Toledo, for which it was painted in 1577. Here, perhaps, in the fine simplicity of the grouping, in the dignity of the inspired head of the Saviour, in the rich and strong colour and in the vivid light and shade,we have the best results of all El Greco learnt in Venice. But even in this beautiful picture we see the development, or rather the co-existence, of his two styles: on the one hand carefully and thoroughly worked-out qualities, a balanced art remembered from Venice, but with it all a power that was his own, that seized the elements in the picture and gave them life—his life. And again, we have in the excessive height of the Christ, in the hands of many of the figures in this picture and in the ‘Assumption,’ first hints of the special conventions with which the name of El Greco is certainly most associated.
We come to the second stage, in which the painter, forgetting tradition, seeks to set down his vision in his own way; it is the period of experiment, as we see it first in the ‘St. Maurice,’[G]painted in 1581, that strange picture, rejected, as we may so well believe, by Philip II., who, misunderstanding, as many have done since, the intensity of feeling that animates the work, attributed its exaggerated expression to madness. Here, and in other pictures of this time, in the seizing ‘Vision of Philip II.’ and in the ‘St. John the Baptist’ in particular, we have splendidexamples of imaginative work. Maybe the details are impossible, perhaps absurd—many have found them so—but for others the inspiration of the painter triumphs, and the longer they gaze at these visions the more they are impelled. For, be it remembered, the idea should be the starting-point in all imaginative pictures, and should control both the design and its treatment, and these Greco’s are splendid in this respect. Whether the imagination is exaggerated and perverted in wilful experiment, whether from an uncertain technical equipment, or whether it is, as we would think, the natural and true expression of intense dramatic vision, it is not easy to say. Who shall decide whether to call these mad pictures or visions that breathe the sublime? That is a question hard to answer in much of El Greco’s characteristic work. Perhaps the truth is that we dislike too readily what we do not easily understand. El Greco goes back to first principles and speaks in symbols with which we are not familiar. Those spectres of human kind that surprise us in so many of his pictures in Toledo, in those in the Prado, as well as in these two in the Escorial, do not suggest life as we see it; but they are inspired—they do convey his meaning. This painter’s method is a real enigma; he essayed surprising effects by separating colour into its original values; he used light as a means of emotional appeal, giving us sometimes most delicate harmonies, sometimes discordant contrasts. Domeniko Greco had to teach his world to see what he saw, and in this way he came, it may seem to some, to over-emphasise what to him was truth.
And his third stage was a fevered expression of his imaginative vision. We have entered a new world of extraordinary restlessness, the restlessness that must exist when spirit struggles from the bonds of the flesh. Toledo, the ardent arid city, burnt fiercely in El Greco’s blood, and, more and more, he seems to have felt that it was not enough to record facts; to have cared less to give æsthetic pleasure; but that the object of his art should be to clothe abstract ideas with life. It is something of all this that we find in his later pictures. In each there is emphasis—or, if you like, exaggeration—of statement; in the ‘Coronation of the Virgin’ in San José, for instance, a picture that in a strange, left-handed way carries us forward to the picture by Velazquez[H]on the same subject. The exaggeration is equally visible in the ‘Assumption’ in San Vicente, more beautiful, and the most interesting of these rare visions, a picture in which we have movement—the very sensation of a figurepassing through the air as we have, perhaps, in no other picture. It is even stronger in the group of pictures in Madrid, the ‘Baptism,’ the ‘Descent of the Holy Spirit,’ the ‘Resurrection,’ and the ‘Christ Dead in the Arms of God’; it meets us again in the ‘St. Joseph with the Child Jesus,’ and in the ‘Virgin and Child with Saints Justa and Gertrude,’[I]both in San José, the church that is the museum of so much of the master’s work—pictures all similar in their intense sentiment; while emphasis burns to a white flame of ardent expression in the famed ‘St. John the Baptist,’ the wonderful picture of which we have spoken already. It is there, too, in the ‘Christ Crucified,’ one in the Prado, one in San Nicolas, surely the most terrible realisation possible of that scene of sacrifice, in which the agony of spirit so outweighs the agony of the flesh, and sky and earth seem to take their share in the struggle.
It is impossible to translate the effect of these animated religious pictures into words. El Greco was not content to embody the old myths in fresh forms, but he gave fresh forms to the ideas that are, as it were, the soul of each myth—that which lives when the form of the stories change. Even in his pictures with few figures, such for instance, as the ‘Mary and Jesus,’ in San Vicente, the‘St. Francis,’ of which there are four replicas in Toledo, or that earlier picture, a beautiful rendering of a difficult theme, ‘La Veronica,’ one of the series painted for the Santo Domingo el Antigua in 1575-76, we have this exaggeration. Then, sometimes, exaggeration, which in each picture, after all, only emphasises the idea, disappears altogether, and we are given figures of singular beauty, as the ‘San Martin,’ in San José, or the really fine Madonnas—dark, oval-faced angels that surprise us at times with a beauty of type we hardly expect from El Greco. But, as a rule, in the pictures of this period, roughly marked by the painting of that experimental picture the ‘St. Maurice,’ there is this intensity of expression; and especially we find a new, and often strange, use of colour; colour, as well as form, being used as a means of dramatic statement, with a result that to many is exaggeration. For El Greco learnt first, perhaps, from the Venetians, and afterwards certainly in Toledo, many new possibilities of colour—that it has a quality that speaks, and further that the appeal of a picture depends first of all on the tone of its colour. It is for this reason he used colour as a means of emotional appeal; it was another quality by which to convey his idea to the world. For El Greco held truly that the province of art is to interpret, not to imitate. Every development of his artseems to have come from his own mind, hardly at all from the work of other painters; from the first he was true to his ideals. And always his pictures seem to be more the work of his soul than of his hand; which, in other words, is to say that he was greater as an artist than as a painter.
Domeniko Greco, like so many of the painters of Spain, was great in portraiture; and some of his portraits, such as those of Antonio Covarrubias and of Juan de Alava, in the Museo de San Juan de Los Reyes, that of Cardinal Tavera, in the Hospital de Afuera, the whole series in the Prado, and many others not possible to name, are as fine portraits as have ever been done in the world. In his earliest portraits even, in that of Julio Clovio, in the Museum of Naples, or that of ‘A Student,’ a portrait, it well may be, of the young painter himself, we have the qualities of his later work; always it is the spirit of his model that he seeks.
And this inward interpretation of life is seen, too, in that picture which is accounted rightly the most interesting, though not perhaps the most typical, of his work, ‘The Burial of Gonzalo Ruiz, Count of Orgaz,’ still in the Church of Santo Tomé, where it was painted in 1584. Look at this gallery of living portraits, all the life of Toledo—the life of Spain—is reflected back from those ardent faces. In St. Augustine, splendid in ecclesiastical robes, is the magnificentopulence of the Catholic Church; in the livid face of the dead count, in the cowled monk and two priests is the fervid piety of a people who have felt themselves in mystical communion with God; in the young, warm beauty of St. Stephen and the lovely acolyte is the full joy and rich colour of Spain; and lastly, in the long line of mourners who stand behind the group of the principal figures, and where the painter’s own nervous face is the sixth portrait counting from the right side, you have types unchanged in Castile to-day. And how individual is the rendering of the upper section of the picture in which Christ awaits in the heavens the spirit of the dead saint. Yes, this picture is one of the greatest pictures in Spain; it is always interesting.
Plate1TOLEDOSpecially drawn for The Spanish Series
TOLEDO
Specially drawn for The Spanish Series
Plate2GENERAL VIEW OF TOLEDO FROM THE SOUTH-EAST
GENERAL VIEW OF TOLEDO FROM THE SOUTH-EAST
Plate3VIEW OF TOLEDO FROM THE SOUTH-EAST
VIEW OF TOLEDO FROM THE SOUTH-EAST
Plate4GENERAL VIEW OF TOLEDO
GENERAL VIEW OF TOLEDO
Plate5VIEW OF TOLEDO FROM THE CAMPO DEL REY
VIEW OF TOLEDO FROM THE CAMPO DEL REY
Plate6GENERAL VIEW OF TOLEDO
GENERAL VIEW OF TOLEDO
Plate7STATE OF THE RUINS OF THE CIRCO MAXIMO IN THE YEAR 1848, ACCORDING TO THE “ALBUM ARTISTICO”
STATE OF THE RUINS OF THE CIRCO MAXIMO IN THE YEAR 1848, ACCORDING TO THE “ALBUM ARTISTICO”
Plate8THE RIVER TAGUS
THE RIVER TAGUS
Plate9ALCANTARA BRIDGE
ALCANTARA BRIDGE
Plate10PERSPECTIVE OF ST. MARTIN’S BRIDGE AND THE DIRECTION OF THE FORTIFIED LINES
PERSPECTIVE OF ST. MARTIN’S BRIDGE AND THE DIRECTION OF THE FORTIFIED LINES
Plate11PERSPECTIVE VIEW OF THE SITE OF THE AQUEDUCT
PERSPECTIVE VIEW OF THE SITE OF THE AQUEDUCT
Plate12ENVIRONS OF TOLEDO
ENVIRONS OF TOLEDO
Plate13PLAZA DE ZOCODOVER
PLAZA DE ZOCODOVER
Plate14THE TOWN HALL
THE TOWN HALL
Plate15THE MARKET-PLACE
THE MARKET-PLACE
Plate16THE MARKET-PLACE
THE MARKET-PLACE
Plate17A STREET IN TOLEDO
A STREET IN TOLEDO
Plate18A STREET IN TOLEDO
A STREET IN TOLEDO
Plate19A STREET IN TOLEDO
A STREET IN TOLEDO
Plate20A STREET IN TOLEDO
A STREET IN TOLEDO
Plate21A STREET IN TOLEDO
A STREET IN TOLEDO
Plate22A STREET IN TOLEDO
A STREET IN TOLEDO
Plate23A STREET IN TOLEDO
A STREET IN TOLEDO
Plate24A STREET IN TOLEDO
A STREET IN TOLEDO
Plate25VISAGRA GATE
VISAGRA GATE
Plate26A STREET IN TOLEDO
A STREET IN TOLEDO
Plate27A STREET IN TOLEDO
A STREET IN TOLEDO
Plate28BRIDGE OF ALCANTARA
BRIDGE OF ALCANTARA
Plate29ALCANTARA GATEALCANTARA PORTAL AND BRIDGE
ALCANTARA GATE
ALCANTARA PORTAL AND BRIDGE
Plate30EXTERIOR OF THE NORTHERN CITY WALLS
EXTERIOR OF THE NORTHERN CITY WALLS
Plate31FORTIFICATIONS OF THE OLD BRIDGE OF BOATS, REPLACED BY THE BRIDGE OF ST. MARTIN
FORTIFICATIONS OF THE OLD BRIDGE OF BOATS, REPLACED BY THE BRIDGE OF ST. MARTIN
Plate32REMAINS OF THE CITY WALLS OF “AL-HIZÉM,” FROM THE GATE OF THE DOCE CANTOS TO THE “PLAZA DE ARMAS” OF THE BRIDGE OF ALCANTARA
REMAINS OF THE CITY WALLS OF “AL-HIZÉM,” FROM THE GATE OF THE DOCE CANTOS TO THE “PLAZA DE ARMAS” OF THE BRIDGE OF ALCANTARA
Plate33REMAINS OF THE CITY WALLS, SOUTH-WEST, REBUILT AT THE TIME OF THE RECONQUEST
REMAINS OF THE CITY WALLS, SOUTH-WEST, REBUILT AT THE TIME OF THE RECONQUEST
Plate34REMAINS OF THE ROMAN RAMPARTS OF THE FIRST ENCLOSURE OF THE CITY
REMAINS OF THE ROMAN RAMPARTS OF THE FIRST ENCLOSURE OF THE CITY
Plate35REMAINS OF THE ROMAN RAMPART OF THE FIRST ENCLOSURE OF THE CITY. (PLAZA DE ARMAS DEL PUENTE DE ALCANTARA)VISIGOTH CAPITAL TRANSFORMED INTO A FOUNTAIN BASIN. (No. 9 CALLEJON DE LA LAMPARILLA)
REMAINS OF THE ROMAN RAMPART OF THE FIRST ENCLOSURE OF THE CITY. (PLAZA DE ARMAS DEL PUENTE DE ALCANTARA)
VISIGOTH CAPITAL TRANSFORMED INTO A FOUNTAIN BASIN. (No. 9 CALLEJON DE LA LAMPARILLA)
Plate36PRINCIPAL ENTRANCE TO THE HOUSE OF THE BATHS OF ABEN-YA-YIX BAJADA AL COLEGIO DEL INFANTESSEPULCHRAL ARCH OF THE INFANTE DON FERNANDO PEREZ IN THE BELEN CHAPEL IN THE CONVENT OF THE COMENDADORA DE SANTIAGO
PRINCIPAL ENTRANCE TO THE HOUSE OF THE BATHS OF ABEN-YA-YIX BAJADA AL COLEGIO DEL INFANTES
SEPULCHRAL ARCH OF THE INFANTE DON FERNANDO PEREZ IN THE BELEN CHAPEL IN THE CONVENT OF THE COMENDADORA DE SANTIAGO
Plate37RUINS OF POLAN CASTLE. FOURTEENTH CENTURY
RUINS OF POLAN CASTLE. FOURTEENTH CENTURY