Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 57, No. 351, January 1845. Various

un pozzo assai largo e profondo,

      Di cui suo luogo conterà l' ordigno.

      Quel cinghio che rimane adunque è tondo

      Tra 'l pozzo e 'l piè dell' alta ripa dura,

      E ha distinto in dieci valli al fondo."

Inferno, c. xviii.

      "There is a place within the depths of hell

      Call'd Malebolge, all of rock dark-stain'd

      With hue ferruginous, e'en as the steep

      That round it circling winds. Right in the midst

      Of that abominable region yawns

      A spacious gulf profound, whereof the frame

      Due time shall tell. The circle, that remains,

      Throughout its round, between the gulf and base

      Of the high craggy banks, successive forms

      Ten bastions, in its hollow bottom raised."

Cary's Dante, c. xviii.

      This is the outward appearance of Malebolge, the worst place of punishment in hell. It had many frightful abysses; what follows is the picture of the first: —

      "Ristemmo per veder l'altra fessura

      Di Malebolge e gli altri pianti vani:

      E vidila mirabilmente oscura.

      Quale nell' arzana de' Veneziani

      Bolle l' inverno la tenace pece,

      A rimpalmar li legni lor non sani —

* * *

      Tal non per fuoco ma per divina arte,

      Bollia laggiuso una pegola spessa,

      Che 'nviscava la ripa d'ogni parte.

      I' vedea lei, ma non vedeva in essa

      Ma che le bolle che 'l bollor levava,

      E gonfiar tutta e riseder compressa.

* * *

      E vidi dietro a noi un diavol nero

      Correndo su per lo scoglio venire.

      Ahi quant' egli era nell' aspetto fiero!

      E quanto mi parea nell' atto acerbo,

      Con l' ali aperte e sovre i piè leggiero!

      L' omero suo ch' era acuto e superbo

      Carcava un peccator con ambo l'anche,

      Ed ei tenea de' piè ghermito il nerbo.

* * *

      Laggiù il buttò e per lo scoglio duro

      Si volse, e mai non fu mastino sciolto

      Con tanta fretta a seguitar lo furo.

      Quei s' attuffò e tornò su convolto;

      Ma i demon che del ponte avean coverchio

      Gridar: qui non ha luogo il Santo Volto.

      Qui si nuota altramenti che nel Serchio:

      Però se tu non vuoi de' nostri graffi,

      Non far sovra la pegola soverchio.

      Poi l' addentar con più di cento raffi,

      Disser: coverto convien che qui balli,

      Si che se puoi nascosamente accaffi."

Inferno, c. xxi.

      " — To the summit reaching, stood

      To view another gap, within the round

      Of Malebolge, other bootless pangs.

      Marvellous darkness shadow'd o'er the place.

      In the Venetians' arsenal as boils

      Through wintry months tenacious pitch, to smear

      Their unsound vessels in the wintry clime.

* * *

      So, not by force of fire but art divine,

      Boil'd here a glutinous thick mass, that round

      Limed all the shore beneath. I that beheld,

      But therein not distinguish'd, save the bubbles

      Raised by the boiling, and one mighty swell

      Heave, and by turns subsiding fall.

* * *

      Behind me I beheld a devil black,

      That running up, advanced along the rock.

      Ah! what fierce cruelty his look bespake.

      In act how bitter did he seem, with wings

      Buoyant outstretch'd, and feet of nimblest tread.

      His shoulder, proudly eminent and sharp,

      Was with a sinner charged; by either haunch

      He held him, the foot's sinew griping fast.

* * *

      Him dashing down, o'er the rough rock he turn'd;

      Nor ever after thief a mastiff loosed

      Sped with like eager haste. That other sank,

      And forthwith writhing to the surface rose.

      But those dark demons, shrouded by the bridge,

      Cried — Here the hallow'd visage saves not: here

      Is other swimming than in Serchio's wave,

      Wherefore, if thou desire we rend thee not,

      Take heed thou mount not o'er the pitch. This said,

      They grappled him with more than hundred hooks,

      And shouted — Cover'd thou must sport thee here;

      So, if thou canst, in secret mayst thou filch."

Cary's Dante, c. xxi.

      Fraught as his imagination was with gloomy ideas, with images of horror, it is the fidelity of his descriptions, the minute reality of his pictures, which gives them their terrible power. He knew well what it is that penetrates the soul. His images of horror in the infernal regions were all founded on those familiar to every one in the upper world; it was from the caldron of boiling pitch in the arsenal of Venice that he took his idea of one of the pits of Malebolge. But what a picture does he there exhibit! The writhing sinner plunged headlong into the boiling waves, rising to the surface, and a hundred demons, mocking his sufferings, and with outstretched hooks tearing his flesh till he dived again beneath the liquid fire! It is the reality of the scene, the images familiar yet magnified in horror, which constitutes its power: we stand by; our flesh creeps as it would at witnessing an auto-da-fè of Castile, or on beholding a victim perishing under the knout in Russia.

      Michael Angelo was, in one sense, the painter of the Old Testament, as his bold and aspiring genius arrived rather at delineating