French subjects who may have been made prisoners by
the ships of his Britannic Majesty, previously to any declaration of
war.

This measure has excited the deepest indignation throughout London; and
an indignation which will be shared by the empire. The English in France
have been travelling and residing under French passports, and under the
declared protection of the government. No crime has been charged upon
them; they remained, because they regarded themselves as secure, relying
on the honour of France. Their being kept as pledges for the French
prisoners captured on the seas, is a mere trifling with common sense.
The French subjects travelling or residing in England have not been
arrested. The mere technicality of a declaration of war was wholly
useless, when the ambassador of France had been ordered to leave
England. The English ambassador had left Paris on the 12th; the French
ambassador had left London on the 16th. The English order for reprisals
appeared in the _Gazette_ of the 17th. The English declaration of war
was laid before Parliament on the 18th; and the first capture, a French
lugger of fourteen guns.

THE "OLD PLAYER."

IMITATED FROM ANASTASIUS GRUeN.

BY A. LODGE.

Aloft the rustling curtain flew,
That gave the mimic scene to view;
How gaudy was the suit he wore!
His cheeks with red how plaster'd o'er!

Poor veteran! that in life's late day,
With tottering step, and locks of gray,
Essay'st each trick of antic glee,
Oh! my heart bleeds at sight of thee.

A laugh thy triumph! and so near
The closing act, and humble bier;
This thy ambition? this thy pride?
Far better thou had'st earlier died!

Though memory long has own'd decay,
And dim the intellectual ray,
Thou toil'st, from many an idle page,
To cram the feeble brain of age.

And stiff the old man's arms have grown.
And scarce his folded hands alone
Half raised in whisper'd prayer they see,
To bless the grandchild at his knee.

But here--'tis action lends a zest
To the dull, pointless, hacknied jest;
He saws the air 'mid welcome loud
Of laughter from the barren crowd.

A tear creeps down his cheek--with pain
His limbs the wasted form sustain;
Ay--weep! no thought thy tears are worth,
So the Pit shakes with boist'rous mirth.

And now the bustling scene is o'er,
The weary actor struts no more;
And hark, "The old man needed rest,"
They cry; "the arm-chair s