JEFFREY, FRANCIS, Lord Jeffrey, a distinguished critic and Scottish judge, was born in Edinburgh on the 23d of October 1773. His father was one of the depute-clerks of the Court of Session, "not a high but a very respectable situation," as Lord Cockburn describes it, and which enabled its possessor to give his children—two sons and two daughters—a good education. The mother, Henrietta Loudon, a Lanarkshire lady, appears to have been a very amiable and excellent person. She died in 1786, and her family revered her memory. Francis, the eldest son, in his eighth year was sent to the High School of Edinburgh, where he remained till he was fourteen. He was then removed to Glasgow University, and attended college for two sessions. He made considerable progress in the Greek and Logic classes, then taught by Professors Young and Jardine, both able and popular instructors, and regarded with affectionate veneration by Jeffrey, as they were afterwards, by another eminent student, Thomas Campbell. The second session Jeffrey seems to have devoted entirely to the moral philosophy class, taught by Professor Arthur; and upon this slender basis of scholarship he proceeded to Oxford. He was entered of Queen's College, and remained there from October 17, 1791, till June 5, 1792. The young Scottish student was by no means prepossessed in favour of Oxford. He was more inclined towards metaphysical than classical studies; and he seems to have thought with Gibbon that little else than port and prejudice were to be imbibed in the college halls. His opinions already leaned to the popular side; and the stately Toryism of Oxford, which had recommended the university to the father, failed to attract or change the son. Separated from his early friends and relatives, in a scene so totally new and alien to all his feelings he was lonely, dispirited, and helpless. He expected to learn nothing, he said, but the English language! This accomplishment, however, he never attained, for he only grafted some high English tones on his native Scotch, which, even with his fine rich voice, had an effect far from being graceful or musical. Lord Holland happily said, that "though Jeffrey had lost his broad Scotch at Oxford, he had only gained the narrow English." This peculiarity of pronunciation, joined to his petit figure and volubility of speech, formed an obstacle to Jeffrey's success at the bar. It gave him an air of superficial smartness and affectation which was only overcome in his highest moods, when the mature lawyer or eager politician, earnest in his cause, and impelled by strong feeling, carried all before him by his rapid eloquence and moral vehemence.

Restored once more to his friends and to Edinburgh society,—and in no one could the home affections or local attachment be more strongly implanted, though little seen on the surface,—Francis Jeffrey applied himself zealously to study. The law was not his favourite pursuit, but it was necessary that he should choose a profession, and this seemed to lie before him. He may be said to have breathed the atmosphere of the Court of Session from his infancy, and his father had held it up as the great object of his family ambition. The usual preparatory training was gone through, and he was called to the bar in December 1794. Previous to this Jeffrey had distinguished himself at the Speculative Jeffrey Society, an institution connected with the University, or at least sanctioned by the Senatus Academicus—a sort of intellectual gymnasium of a high character, at which essays were read, and public questions debated. The society had existed in great repute for about thirty years, and had enrolled many eminent men among its members—as Playfair, Dugald Stewart, Mackintosh, Dr Gregory, &c. When Jeffrey joined it in 1792, he found Walter Scott officiating as secretary. In a few years Henry Brougham, Francis Horner, John Archibald Murray, James Moncrieff, and Henry Cockburn became members; and an institution boasting such an array of varied and commanding talent, and enriched with historical associations, might well breathe an invigorating spirit and generous emulation into the youths who crowded to its intellectual contests. Jeffrey was never absent from the meetings, and never present without taking a part in the discussions. He there earned his first laurels, and felt his native strength freed from scholastic restraints, and revelling, as he said, "in the bright and boundless realms of literature and science." At this time he was attached to scientific pursuits, attended chemical lectures, and delighted in every department of natural philosophy.

His progress at the bar was slow, and long doubtful. He laboured under two disadvantages. His sentiments on all public questions were (to the great grief of his father), decidedly at variance with those in whose hands the patronage of Scotland was then vested, and his love of literature was more active and predominant than his love of law. Like most of his associates in the Speculative, he was a Whig in politics; and, in those days to be a Whig in Scotland, was to be proscribed from most of the higher circles in society, to be shut out from most offices of trust, and debarred from nearly all hope of advancement. The bench was filled with judges of high Tory principles—men of resolute character and dominant will, who crushed or discouraged every young aspirant at the bar supposed to be tainted with liberalism; and clients and agents held aloof from counsel, on whom the suspicion or displeasure of the Court rested. Within a period of nine years, from 1794 to 1803, Jeffrey's professional income never, in any one year, exceeded £100. The unsuccessful advocate, however, was not idle. He continued his studies with unabated ardour, and at one time entertained the ambition of becoming a popular poet. He completed a poem on Dreaming, consisting of 1800 lines, in blank verse; he translated the Argonauticon of Apollonius Rhodius, extending to above 6000 lines in blank verse; he wrote two plays, one a tragedy, conceived apparently in the spirit of Lillo's domestic dramas; and he threw off copies of occasional verses, descriptive, amatory, and serious,—none personal or satirical. All this was done for the solitary student's own gratification and improvement. He was generally dissatisfied with what he wrote, and seems never, except in the case of the translation, to have contemplated publication. When worshipping the muse in secret, he was, like Chaucer's Prioress, "all conscience and tender heart." Had he come forward and challenged public criticism as a poet, he would probably never have been a reviewer. His works would have risen up in judgment against him; and his dread of ridicule, no less than his sense of justice, would have deterred him from condemning others in points where he had himself offended, and from assuming the tone and style of the Dictator. As it was, he was benefited by the exercise. "Many who are not able to reach the Parnassian heights may yet," as his friend Henry Mackenzie has said, "approach so near as to be bettered by the air of the climate." He could not have expatiated so long in verse, or courted the tragic muse, without extending the range of his moral emotions and sensibilities; felicities of expression, metaphors, analogies, and imagery, would be sought after; comparisons would be instituted; and command of language, acuteness of perception, and refinement of taste would follow. We have no doubt that some of the happiest flights of the eloquent pleader and brilliant essayist, might have been traced to the silent and abortive studies of the poetical enthusiast. One distinguishing feature of the poetical temperament he always possessed—he was keenly alive to the beauties of external nature. His letters overflow with expressions of delight when he visited the wild scenery of the Highlands, or reposed for a season amidst the cultivated pomp and beauty of the English parks and woodlands. His residence at Craigcrook commands extensive and noble views—the sea, the distant Highland mountains, and his "own romantic town," seated on its throne of crags,—and to wander at will on those heights contemplating the summer sunsets, or the varied aspects of the sky and surrounding landscape, continued with Jeffrey, till he was upwards of three score and ten, to form one of the most exquisite and indestructible of his enjoyments. Nay, the passion increased with his years, as it does with all men who have not sold themselves to the hollow vanities and traffic of the world. Time that steals away so many of our pleasures seems to leave this, the purest of them all, as the peculiar solace and delight of age.

The year 1802 may be termed the grand era and turning-point in Jeffrey's life. He had the previous winter married—the marriage having "all the recommendations of poverty," as Lord Cockburn characterizes it. But Jeffrey doubted whether he should get above the £100 a-year before he was too old to marry at all, and he felt the desolation of being in solitude as something worse than any of the inconveniences of poverty. He was an epicurean philosopher on a low platform. The lady of his affections was his second cousin, a daughter of Dr Wilson, professor of Church History in the University of St Andrews. She survived the marriage only about four years; but happy in his choice, with no impending cloud, Jeffrey set up his household deities in a flat or floor of Buccleuch Place. It was not in the famous eighth or ninth flat, named by Sydney Smith, but in the third flat of the house, now No. 18; and there—in the little parlour, furnished at a cost of just £13, 8s., as Jeffrey with manly and honourable feeling recorded with his own hand, and preserved the record, or in the drawing-room, made ornate at an expense of £22, 19s.—there assembled a more remarkable body of young men, and was organized a more memorable project than any other room of similar pretensions in Britain ever witnessed. The men were the host himself, Sydney Smith, Francis Horner, Dr Thomas Brown, John Archibald Murray, Dr John Thomson, and Thomas Thomson. As yet Henry Brougham, soon to be the most active of the band, was not admitted to the consultations; for Sydney Smith, stout-hearted as he was, dreaded discovery of their scheme, and feared the rashness of the future Chancellor. The project was the establishment of the Edinburgh Review. "I proposed that we should set up a Review," says the witty Sydney, "and it was acceded to with acclamation. I was appointed editor, and remained long enough to edit the first number of the Edinburgh Review." In reality three numbers were issued before he left Scotland; and though he was the projector and most active manager, there was no regular editor to the first three numbers. "The motto I proposed for the Review," continued Sydney, "was,—"

Tantum erogaverunt manus meae. ('We cultivate literature upon a little oatmeal.')

But this was too near the truth to be admitted, and so we took our present grave motto from Publius Syrus." The motto, as Scott said, was as if the adventurers had hung out the bloody flag on their title page,—Judex damnatur cum non cens absolvetur; "The judge is condemned when the guilty Jeffrey is acquitted." No quarter was to be given to the public enemy—the critics were not to withhold their arm from battle for pity, need, or respect of persons—and they kept their word! Of this powerful journal a short detail will not be inappropriate. The first number appeared on the 10th of October 1802. The impression of 750 copies was soon exhausted, a second followed, and other and larger editions were called for. Before the Review had reached the third number, the regular sale was 2500 copies, and ultimately it rose to about 12,000. Sydney Smith opened a negotiation with the publishers, Archibald Constable of Edinburgh (the Tonsom or Lintot of Scotland) and the Messrs Longman of London, which resulted in Jeffrey being appointed editor with an allowance of £60 for each number, and £10 a sheet, or 16 pages, for all contributions. "The terms are without precedent," said Mr Longman; "but the success of the work is not less so," added Jeffrey, and in fact in a few years the minimum allowance to the authors was raised to sixteen guineas a sheet, and the editor's allowance was more than doubled. The Review was an "argosy with portly sail," against which the "petty traffickers" of the monthly and critical reviews had no chance of competition. It bore down all rivalry till Scott took the field.

During the long period of twenty-six years Francis Jeffrey conducted the Edinburgh Review. His best contributors were Smith, Horner, Brougham, and Mackintosh. Hallam and Scott lent occasional assistance, and at a comparatively late period Mr Macaulay imparted fresh vigour and brilliancy to its pages. From the first, however, Jeffrey was the most popular and effective writer; besides inciting his conjoiners, and giving consistency and stability to the work, he selected as his peculiar and chosen field the departments of poetry, romance, and biography. Politics he took up occasionally, though in this he was inferior to Brougham, and metaphysical speculation he divided with Mackintosh. He had no theory of his own, but he set himself to disentangle metaphysics from what he deemed doubtful and obscure, and to exhibit what is satisfactory to reason or what bears in any degree on practical purposes. The happiest of all his critiques of this description is his review of Alison's Essays on Taste, which he afterwards expanded into the article Beauty for this Encyclopedia. He cut off from Alison's theory of association the notion of long trains of ideas and sensations, which he held to be superfluous, and he enforced his views with a clearness and vivacity of style, and richness of illustration, which are perhaps not exceeded even by the finest of Dugald Stewart's disquisitions. In the few essays which he contributed on the old English masters he did good service to literature. His reviews of the Elizabethan writers, and of the wits, poets, and essayists of the Anne and Georgian periods, are generally marked by correct taste and acute discrimination. He did injustice to Swift, whose moral obliquities blinded the critic to the vast intellectual resources of that giant of his age, but he dwelt with cordial delight on the milder charms of Addison, the noble sweep of Dryden's versification, and the pointed brilliancy and antithesis of Pope. He may be said to have revelled among the creations of Shakespeare, Beaumont and Fletcher, Ford and Massinger. The same poetical susceptibility led him to hail Keats as a true poet, and to devote some of his most eloquent pages to Crabbe, Campbell, and Moore. The only defect of these genial essays is, that the style is often loose and careless. The critic's essays, like his speeches, sometimes wanted simplicity and condensation.

In dealing with living authors, Jeffrey had to encounter dulness and conceit, and he was startled by novelties not recognized in his school. Flushed with youthful power and success, he was at times harsh and petulant. He wrote to show his wit, and he failed occasionally to appreciate the higher traits of original genius. Political feeling also warped his judgment. The works of Wordsworth, Southey, and Coleridge were treated with unjustifiable severity. His war with the Lake poets lasted longer than the war of Troy, and he did not come off conqueror. Even the critic's personal friend Scott was schooled with a sort of pedagogical superiority, and his small errors dwelt upon as inexplicable offences. In all these unfavourable critiques, however, the best passages were uniformly quoted; whatever was picturesque, solemn, or figurative, in the work reviewed, found its way into the review. These extracts rendered Jeffrey's criticism highly interesting; and the reviewer was not wholly to be condemned for his depreciatory criticism. If he dwelt more on faults than on beauties, he conceived it to be his duty to punish sins of carelessness and irregularity with an unsparing hand, in order that he might at once preserve the public taste from corruption, and reform the offender. He sent proof sheets of his most sarcastic articles to friendly parties whom he attacked—to Scott among others—which certainly evinced his courage as well as his conscientiousness. "I let them know," he used to remark, "what I say of them before they are led out to execution. When I take up my reviewing pen, I consider myself as entering the temple of truth, and bound to say what I think." He used jocularly to term the table in his study his dissecting table; and it bore many remains of mangled authors and fragments of works that he had dismissed to contempt if not oblivion; but there also were gathered many choice and beautiful flowers of fancy, with much solid and valuable fruit, the offspring of rich culture and a teeming soil. One of the bold and slashing articles in the Review (1806) led, as is well known, to a duel with Thomas Moore, but the poet and critic afterwards became warm friends, and Moore contributed to the work which had made such an onslaught on his reputation. The hostile criticism on Byron's juvenile poems was another blunder of the Review; it was absurdly severe. The offence was not committed by the editor, and Jeffrey amply atoned for his editorial indiscretion by his eloquent criticism on the noble poet's subsequent productions. Byron, in turn, did justice to the worth and generosity of his critic. In one of the later cantos of Don Juan, he warmly apostrophises Jeffrey, and makes touching and beautiful allusion to "auld langsyne," Scotch plaid, Scotch hills, and streams,—the visions of youth that floated past him in Italy, like Banquo's offspring, clothed in their own pall—a pall that now covers both poet and critic.

The political strictures of the Review were no less warmly resented by the friends of government. The war in Spain ranged the nation into two decided parties,—one, like Scott, animated with a strong anti-Gallic spirit, and another, like Jeffrey, Brougham, and their friends, predicting that we should reap nothing but disaster and disgrace from the struggle. A review of Don Cevallos on the French Usurpation in Spain (1808) by Brougham, was the signal for the secession of Walter Scott and many persons of influence from the Review, and led to the establishment of its great rival, the Quarterly Review, in London. A class of religious objectors also swelled the cry of opposition. Sydney Smith's attacks on cant and methodism were held up to reprobation. In ridiculing the writings of authors of this class, and endeavouring to root out as he said, "the nests of consecrated cobblers," Sydney's wit sometimes bordered upon profanity, and a hue and cry of heresy was raised against the Review which was not extinct for years afterwards. Jeffrey's leading object was more general and enlarged; he wished to combine ethical precepts with literary criticism, "earnestly seeking," as he said, "to impress his readers with a sense of the close connection between sound intellectual attainments and the higher elements of duty and enjoyment, and of the just and ultimate subordination of the latter to the former." This was aiming at a high standard, and the attempt was not unsuccessful. All Jeffrey's writings bore the recommendation of a moral purpose. Since Jeffrey's day criticism has become more aesthetic and profound, and accordingly his essays in a collected shape have not been very popular; they had done their work in the original periodical form, and much of their value perished in the using. He was the great pioneer; he achieved much himself; but he had led the way to brighter conquests by others; and in politics this was more strikingly evident than in literature. Time has reversed many of his literary judgments; but to the Edinburgh Review may be mainly ascribed the formation and continued growth of that public opinion which, as Hume has remarked, all governments ultimately rest, and which in England, carried the abolition of slavery, the repeal of the test acts, the emancipation of the Roman Catholics, and the reform of the parliamentary representation and municipal institutions of the country.

Mr Jeffrey's practice at the bar increased with his popularity as a reviewer. He was a careful and conscientious counsel; and when the Jury Court for the trial of civil cases was established in Scotland, he rose to the highest eminence and most extensive practice as a pleader. His professional talents and integrity had borne down all political opposition; and in 1829 his brethren of the bar elected him to the honorary office of Dean of the Faculty of Advocates. He had previously received honours of another description in his election in 1820 and 1822, as Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow.

But we have now to view him in a new and higher scene—in Parliament. The great political change which he had in no small degree helped to bring about, was accomplished. The old idols to which so many had bowed, had been thrown down and dashed on the floor of the sanctuary; the Whigs were in office, and Mr Jeffrey was the Lord Advocate of Earl Grey's administration. In February 1831 he took his seat in the House of Commons as member for the Perth district of burghs. He was unseated by an election committee, in consequence of some irregularity in the return, but through Lord Fitzwilliam's influence he was elected for Malton in Yorkshire. The House of Lords rejected the Reform Bill, Parliament was dissolved, and the Lord Advocate solicited the suffrages of his native city. No less than 17,400 of the inhabitants petitioned the Town Council in his favour, but that self-elected and irresponsible body, sealed against all popular sympathies, rejected him by three votes, thirteen being in favour of Mr Jeffrey, and seventeen supporting his opponent Mr R. A. Dundas. He again tried the Perth burghs, and by a valid election, was returned. In parliament he assisted in carrying the Reform Bill, and when that bill became law, and the new constituency was formed, he was triumphantly returned, along with his friend Mr Abercromby, now Lord Dunfermline, as representative of the city of Edinburgh. He retained his seat until May 1834, when he was elevated to the bench on the retirement of an aged judge, Lord Craigne. His parliamentary experience had extended over three years, and had cost him, in election contests, about L10,000!

Jeffrey, like Erskine, though pre-eminently eloquent at the bar, is generally considered to have failed as a parliamentary speaker. His career was short, and his health was shattered and precarious. He was fifty-seven ere he entered the House of Commons—a period of life too late to acquire distinction in that difficult arena. His failure was less marked than that of Scarlett, Follett, and other eminent barristers; but it may be conceded that his style of oratory was not adapted for the House of Commons. It was too ornate and refined, and sometimes too prolonged. There was too much leaf for the fruit. The speeches wanted breadth and heartiness, which are essential in a popular assembly. The physical defects of the speaker, to which we have already alluded,—the rapid utterance, and weak, high-toned voice—rendered it difficult for his hearers to follow him; but his speech on the Reform Bill was one of the ablest addresses which that crisis called forth, and there were other occasions on which he spoke with great effect. He was also, as Lord Cockburn has observed, "a regular attender, a good voter, a wise adviser, and a popular gentleman" in the House of Commons.

As a judge, Lord Jeffrey earned high distinction and implicit confidence. The most plodding and prosaic lawyer could not have been more industrious, though few could rival him in the clearness and vivacity with which he stated his legal decisions. The rapidity of his intellect sometimes led him to interrupt counsel, in order to elicit the truth, or detect sophistry; but this, as his friendly biographer states, was done with great urbanity, and solely from an anxiety to reach justice. He was, in fact, as popular with the counsel as he was with the public. In his periods of leisure, Lord Jeffrey still devoted attention to literature. He read much; carried on a considerable correspondence; and took a lively interest in the Edinburgh Review, to which, after his becoming a judge, he contributed one or two articles,—tributes to the memory of Wilberforce and Mackintosh. So late as 1848, he wrote a paper on the claims of Watt and Cavendish as the discoverers of the composition of water. His health had been long weak, but his death was sudden and unlooked-for. On Tuesday, January 22d, he discharged his usual official duties in the Court of Session; on the Saturday evening following he was no more. He died January 26, 1850, aged seventy-seven, and was interred in the Dean Cemetery. His death was deeply mourned in his native city, with which he seemed to be peculiarly and indissolubly identified. To Walter Scott belongs the honour of creating a new and splendid epoch in our national poetry and in historical romance, which, while it embraced all the civilized world in its effects, shone with a peculiar and renovating lustre on his native country. Francis Jeffrey was the founder of a school of philosophical criticism and independent thought that has exercised greater influence on public opinion and contemporary literature than all the universities in the kingdom. His merits were high and various. In literature, he was long the prince of critics. In law, he was the most eloquent of advocates, and the most upright and discriminating of judges. As a politician, he was the enemy of all oppression, intolerance, and wrong, and the friend of every institution and measure that tended to enlighten and benefit society. In private life he displayed all the social virtues, and specially he was one of the most brilliant conversationists of his age; full of wit, "that loved to play, not wound," and of fancy that seemed inexhaustible in its combinations and imagery; the man of genius, and the patriot; kind, hospitable, generous, and disinterested. The rashness and precipitancy that marked some of his early judgments and opinions had disappeared long before his death. The youthful asperities and crudities had been removed or mellowed down by time and reflection, and the nobler qualities of his heart and mind became only more active and transparent with his years. He had gained all the prizes of honest ambition; he enjoyed wealth and honours without detraction or envy; he had survived all political and literary animosities; and he died before his intellectual powers or the fine humanity of his nature had suffered diminution or decay. For one who had toiled so incessantly, who had mingled in the stormy contentions of the world, and was as courageous as he was gentle and courteous, who had attacked established prejudices, and promulgated his canons of criticism and party denunciations with a sort of defiant power, this was a rare and enviable felicity. It could only be the reward of solid virtues and substantial services. It has been the lot of few, but all seemed willing and happy that it should be the lot of Francis Jeffrey.

Lord Jeffrey was twice married; the second time, in 1813, to an American lady, daughter of Charles Wilkes, Esq., Jeffreys, George, Lord, better known as "Judge Jeffreys," an English lawyer, whose name has become a proverb of infamy, was born in 1648 at Acton in Denbighshire. His father was a country squire of means so small that he was unable to do more for his son than give him a good legal education. That son, however, soon showed himself possessed of qualities that made him quite independent of aid from without. Charles II. described him as a man who "had no learning, no sense, no manners, and more impudence than ten carted street-walkers." The first half of this character is hardly fair to Jeffreys; the second, true so far as it goes, falls far short of the whole truth. "His legal knowledge," says Macaulay, "was merely such as he had picked up in practice of no very high kind. But he had one of those happily constituted intellects which, across labyrinths of sophistry, and through masses of immaterial facts, go straight to the true point." His manners were marked by a wild and brutal ferocity which was never matched or even approached by the worst of the bullies and prostitutes that he himself ever condemned to be flogged at the cart's-tail. To describe his impudence in brief compass is quite beyond the powers of language. In his wilder moods it ceased to be impudence, or even impudence, and rose into paroxysms of a terrific and half maniacal frenzy. When to these qualities are added the cunning of a wild beast, the cruelty of an inquisitor, and a malignity that gloated and revelled in the shrieks and groans of its unhappy victims, it will be easily seen why the name of Jeffreys is even now hardly ever pronounced by the Englishman without a curse. Jeffreys first rose into notice by attending the assizes at Kingston when every other member of the profession was frightened away by the plague, then raging there. This act would seem to indicate that, until his swinish habits of drunkenness and debauchery had ruined his nerves and sapped his strength, he was not without a certain amount of courage. He worked himself into practice at the Old Bailey, and early became common serjeant, and then Recorder of London. Having in this capacity shown himself a willing tool of the court, he gradually rose till, in 1683, he became chief-justice of the King's Bench. After the failure of Monmouth's mad attempt on his uncle's crown, it was Jeffreys' duty to traverse the western counties and punish all who had been taken in revolt. In this tour, characteristically called "the Bloody Assizes," or Jeffrey's campaign, the chief-justice made it his boast that he had hanged more traitors than all his predecessors together since the Conquest. Lord Lonsdale says that his victims numbered 700; Burnet, 600. The list sent by the judges to the Treasury gives 320, which is probably far short of the truth. For these important services he was rewarded by James with the office of Lord High Chancellor, and he continued to serve his patron with his whole soul till the Revolution. When that event deprived him of his only friend, Jeffreys, conscious of danger if not of guilt, tried to fly the kingdom. Disguising himself as a sailor, he lurked at Wapping, watching for a vessel to carry him to the continent. An attorney whom he had browbeaten and bullied from the bench some time before, recognised him by the ferocious glare of his eyes as he was staring out of a tavern window. The alarm was given, and Jeffreys was only saved from being lynched by the mob by the arrival of a strong guard. He was carried to the Tower of London, where he died April 19, 1689.

Jelalabad or Dooshak, an ancient city of Seistan, in Afghanistan, about 250 miles W. of Kandahar, situate 4 miles from the right bank of the Helmoon River, and about 10 miles E. of the Lake Hamoon. This town was once large and flourishing, and is said to have been almost as populous as Isphahan. At present it only contains about 10,000 inhabitants, and covers not more than a fourth of its ancient area, which is now strewn with broken fragments of its former greatness. There is a good bazaar in the town, and the streets are better laid out than in the generality of eastern cities.

Jelalabad, a town of Afghanistan, in the province of Cabool, situate in the rich plain of Jelalabad. Though advantageously built on the main road from the Punjab to Cabool, it has neither trade nor manufactures. It will, nevertheless, be ever celebrated in history in consequence of the heroic and successful defence made during the winter of 1841 by a handful of British troops, under Sir Robert Sale, against a numerous army of Afghans. The fortifications were destroyed by order of General Pollock, on his final evacuation of Afghanistan in 1842. Lat. 34. 25. Long. 70. 28.