Gibraltar is well named the Key of the Mediterranean. In peace it protects our commerce and our fleets, in war it affords equal facility for harassing our foes; by its position and its strength its possession is of the utmost importance to the English, and it has excited for the last century and a half the suspicion and the jealousy of other nations. The rock of Gibraltar projects into the sea about three miles. Its northern extremity, owing to its perpendicular altitude, is inaccessible; its southern extremity is known as Europa Point; and the southern and eastern sides are rugged and steep, affording natural defences of a very formidable character. It is only on the western side fronting the bay that the rock gradually declines to the sea; but the town of Gibraltar is so built that an attack upon it, however well planned, however strong or long continued, is almost certain of failure. The bay formed by the two points already named is more than four miles across. The depth of its waters, and the protection afforded by the headland, render the harbour remarkably secure, and it is well adapted for vessels of every description. The extreme depth of the water within the bay is a hundred and ten fathoms. The security of the harbour has been still further increased by two moles, one extending eleven hundred feet, and the other seven hundred feet into the bay. The bold outline of the rock is conspicuous and striking, as it lifts its colossal proportions into the sky, and against the intense blue of that sky every crag is sharply defined. From the water to the summit, from the land forts to Europa Point, the whole rock is lined with formidable batteries. Like a crouching lion it looks out to sea, and every foe is daunted by its aspect. Gibraltar is essentially military. Sentinels, gateways, drawbridges, fortifications, guns pointing this way, that way, and the other, looking as if—supposing them to be fired—they would inevitably blow up one another; narrow streets of stairs which it is hard work in the hot sunshine to ascend; nothing to see when you reach the top but a line of ramparts, and another street of stairs in perspective. Excavated passages in the rock lead from point to point; every new position seems more impregnable than the last; awful heights rise above, terrific depths yawn below; guns peer—at the most unexpected points—from the sides of the rock, as if they were natural productions; tunnelled galleries open to the right and to the left, inviting or deterring the visitor. There is one huge chamber cut out of the solid rock, and serving as a battery or a banquet room as occasion may require; it is called St. George’s Hall, and is the most formidable and singular cutting of Gibraltar. There is another excavation of the same character christened by the name of Cornwallis, but it is neither so spacious nor so elegant as that of St. George.