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 suits him best." His lips have moved with mutter'd sound-- A pause--and still the taunt goes round; "Oh! quite worn out--'tis doting age, Why lags the driveller on the stage?" Again the halting speech he tries, But words the faltering tongue denies, Scarce heard the low unmeaning tone, Then silent--as tho' life were flown. The curtain falls, and rings the bell, They know not 'tis the Player's knell; Nor deem their noise and echoing cry The dirge that speeds a soul on high! Dead in his chair the old man lay, His colour had not pass'd away;-- Clay-cold, the ruddy cheeks declare What hideous mockery lingers there!