# Englishmen in the French Revolution/Appendix C

C.
Narrative of English Benedictine Nuns of Cambray.
(From a MS. at Stoneyhurst College. See p. 221.)
In the summer of the year 1793, the allied armies being near the gates of Cambray, the religious were repeatedly ordered in the most threatening manner by the district of the above place to lay in provisions for six months against the siege which was then about to take place. We accordingly provided ourselves with such a stock of necessaries as our finances would allow us to purchase. From the commencement of the unhappy troubles we had been constantly alarmed by the visits or decrees of the agents in the Revolution, who were nowhere more outrageous than at Cambray, though our being conscious of not having given the least offence made us willing to flatter ourselves we were on that account in some degree of safety. However, on Sunday, October 13th, 1793, the district of Cambray sent four of their agents to fix the public seals on all papers and effects belonging to us.
These commissioners appeared at the convent at about half-past eight at night. We had retired to our cells, having to rise at midnight to perform matins, so that it was some time before our superior could open the enclosure door, at which they seemed not a little displeased.
The Rev. Mr. Walker, who from a motive of charity assisted us as spiritual director, was just recovering from a dangerous illness, and had retired to rest, but on hearing the general alarm, arose, and immediately came to comfort and encourage us. All being assembled, one of the men, who seemed the most cruel of the company, read a long paper, the purport of which was, that ​all effects belonging to us should be seized, and confiscated to the nation.
Mr. Walker began to expostulate, but their brutality soon silenced and astonished him; they then proceeded to fix the seals upon all the books, papers, &c., belonging to the superior and dame procuratrix, threatening them all the while how severely they should be punished in case they concealed even the smallest article of their property.
Having secured everything, they told us we were now to consider ourselves prisoners, and then wrote a long account of their own proceedings, at the close of which they added, by desire of the community, that the religious wished to remain prisoners in their own convent, under a guard, rather than be removed to any other place of confinement; this paper our superior and procuratrix signed. They left the convent about eleven o'clock at night to put the seals on everything in the out-buildings, an apartment in which was appointed for the use of the chaplain; this they performed with the most exact scrutiny. They arrested the Rev. Messrs. Walker and Higginson (the latter was a priest who, in consideration of the age and declining health of the former, had some months before been appointed to assist him).
To prevent these gentlemen from conversing with us, they immediately deprived us of all solace from them, by removing them the same night, though it was near twelve o'clock when they were hurried away. Mr. Walker was quite broken with grief, age, and infirmity. We had the affliction of seeing how very roughly and inhumanly he was treated, from our adjoining convent, and feared they were dragging him away for immediate execution, but Providence kindly reserved him to be our support and consolation in a future place of suffering. What we felt on this occasion may be more easily imagined than expressed. That night the above gentlemen were confined ​in the Town House; next morning they were removed to the Bishop's seminary, which formerly belonged to the Jesuits, but it was at that time become what they termed a maison de détention.
There they remained till the 20th of November 1793, deprived of the most common necessaries, and were one day and a half without any other food than a bit of bread. They wrote to different innkeepers in the town, and assured them of immediate pay for the scanty subsistence they asked, but so offensive was the name of a religious person to the greater part of Cambray, and the few well-disposed so terrified at the cruelty and wickedness of the times, that no answer was ever returned, nor could they ever prevail on a barber to attend them for any reward. At last a good woman who had lived with us in quality of servant, hearing by chance of the pressing distress of these gentlemen, had the courage, notwithstanding every difficulty and danger, to wait on them, and procure for them the best victuals in her power, Mr. Walker frequently said she had by her charitable assistance saved him from starving. To return to the community. From the moment the commissioners of the district entered our house on the preceding Sunday, we found ourselves strictly guarded, but were still made to hope we might remain in our convent, as we had been assured by members of the district in the most solemn manner there was neither danger nor probability of our being sent out. That this was all treachery we were afterwards convinced, for the next day, Friday the 18th, we were suddenly seized upon by a body of light guards, part of whom surrounded the street door, whilst the rest entered the convent, with a rabble crowd attending. A very brutal man sent by the district headed them. When he came to the enclosure door, his first question was, "Have you laid in provisions for six ​months?" On being assured that had been done, he seemed for an instant at a loss what to say. After a short pause he gave orders that we should be totally out of the house in half a quarter of an hour; that he would not allow us to take either trunk or box, but only each person a small bundle. His manner of speaking appeared so strangely insulting, it threw us into the greatest terror, so that amidst the hurry and confusion of so sudden and unexpected a calamity, overwhelmed with sorrow in being turned out of our much beloved abode, and for want of time to collect together our few clothes, many came away with only what they had then on. At that afflicting moment, the future want of necessaries found little or no place in our distressed minds. We were almost stupefied with grief. The procuratrix petitioned to bring away a small book which contained a few memorandums very useful to herself, but the man whom she addressed tore the book from her hand, telling her instantly to fetch brandy for the hussars, which command she was obliged to obey, whilst this barbarous man was running about the house with a club in his hand to hasten and affright us to be gone.
Thus in less than half an hour we were completely out and dispossessed of our whole property, without being able to learn of any one what was to be our fate, but thought death would soon have followed, and expected to be despatched by the fatal guillotine. On approaching the street door we found a coach and two carts, each strongly guarded by a detachment of hussars on horseback with drawn swords. We were hurried away with much precipitation. The guards seemed greatly displeased at this barbarous usage—some of them even shed tears, and on the road, with the most feeling compassion, even lent their own cloaks to those religious who were in the uncovered carts, to shelter them in some degree from the intense cold.
​Through the whole dismal journey of five days they contributed all in their power to soften and alleviate the hardships they saw us exposed to; but it was not in their ability to prevent the populace treating us with the most insulting language through whatever towns and villages we passed, and when we arrived at any place to spend the night we were guarded by the soldiers who kept the prison in which we happened to be lodged, amongst whom we sometimes met with a variety of hardships and scenes of brutality, insomuch that we always dreaded the approach of night. We were twenty in number and one novice when expelled the convent, viz:—
| | Aged |
| Mary Anselm Ann | 79 |
| Jane Alexander Gordon | 78 |
| Elizabeth Sheldon | 73 |
| Margaret Burgess | 72 |
| Elizabeth Haggerstone | 68 |
| Mary Blyde | 64 |
| Teresa Walmesley | 55 |
| Louisa Hagan | 53 |
| Elizabeth Knight | 51 |
| Elizabeth Partington | 49 |
| Mary Partington | 42 |
| Margaret Barnwall | 37 |
| Agnes Robinson | 32 |
| Anne Shepherd | 31 |
| Helen Shepherd | 29 |
Lay Sisters—
| | Aged |
| Ann Pennington | 60 |
| Louisa Lefebvre | 59 |
| Magdalen Kimberley | 48 |
| Ann Cayton | 44 |
| Martha Fryar | 32 |
| Jane Milner (novice) | 27 |
The first night we were lodged in a ruinous place called Bassone (Bapaume?); it had the appearance of having been a convent, but was almost destroyed. The violence of the rabble on seeing us was so great that we were happy to be taken into any place like a house. The mayor of this town was a native of Cambray, and well known to us, one of his sisters having received her education amongst us; but he now appeared to know nothing of us, nor showed us the least indulgence. He was highly displeased at our being in the religious dress, and said the people of Cambray had acted against the law by not making every one shun a dress which the law had proscribed. The jailor of this prison seemed a quiet man, and his daughter was good enough to buy for us two faggots, some very brown bread, and a kettle of boiling water. We made tea, but sugar and milk were delicacies not to be thought of, or at least not obtained, besides being too much exhausted with grief and the fatigue endured that day to relish that then luxurious meal, so that the greater part not being disposed to eat, were glad to throw their wearied bodies on the floor, and spread a few bundles of clothes to stretch their languid limbs upon; even in that state we were frequently disturbed by the guards looking through the windows. Next night we passed at Peronne in the citadel. Here we were guarded by the National ​Troops, whose brutality can hardly be described; nothing can be conceived more disagreeably offensive than their language and behaviour. A woman who appeared to belong to one of them molested us by every means she could study; still amidst all their cruel treatment we had the comfort to meet with some few friends.
A female, whose father in better times had been employed by us, had the courage to make her way into our prison; she and her husband procured for us bread, small beer, and a few boiled eggs, which were really a great treat, as some had not tasted anything for two days. We also found in this place a few bedsteads with dirty straw, which the soldiers had apparently slept on for some months; we did not at first choose to lie down on them, but excessive weariness in the end overcame that difficulty. Still no rest was to be had in this scene of horror; the soldiers were passing to and fro the greater part of the night, even through the room we occupied. Next morning, by means of a lady who was there in arrestation, we procured one cup of tea each before the guards came to summon us away in order to proceed on our dismal journey. On Sunday evening we rested at Ham; here was as usual a great stir among the people crying out "Aristocrats to the guillotine," but this language had now become too familiar to have quite its former effect upon us. The prison we were lodged in being situated in the environs of the town, we experienced less inconvenience from the rabble than usual, for not to be insulted in a great degree seemed an extraordinary favour. The governor of this place proved a very quiet man; he gave orders that we should have a commodious room to ourselves, allowed clean straw spread over the floor, and we felt happy to lie down upon it. That night passed without noise or interruption; next morning the governor paid us a civil visit. The woman ​who took care of this prison had lived in our neighbourhood at Cambray, and seemed much affected on seeing our present distress. It gave her particular concern to see us go off in carts, whilst all the other prisoners, a few men excepted, were provided with coaches to their separate destinations; she thought as many others that we were exposed in carts that we might lie more open to insult.
Monday evening we arrived at Noyon. Words cannot describe the terror we here felt: the carts had no sooner stopped in the middle of the market-place than thousands assembled in the most tumultuous manner around us; for nuns to appear in their religious dress was at that time the worst of crimes. Some talked of tearing us to pieces, others were for burying us alive with the proscribed dress, as they termed it. The guards who conducted us endeavoured repeatedly to speak in our favour, but so great was the noise and riot amongst the populace, whose numbers had in a short time increased to a dreadful degree, that not a word could be heard. Not only the streets, but the windows and house-tops were crowded with spectators. The hussars, finding it impossible to keep order, called up the soldiers quartered in the town, by whose assistance we were taken out of the carts half dead with fright, after being detained in the marketplace near an hour amidst a variety of the most outrageous insults and threats. One instance may suffice to show the disposition of the people in our regard. One of our company, a very old lady, being taken out of the cart, finding herself unable to stand leant against the horse which stood next her, upon which the beast immediately kicked her; the rabble set up the most exulting shouts and clapped their hands for joy. The soldiers who came to assist ours, guarded us that night, and were extremely civil; from motives of compassion ​they conducted us to a decent inn instead of the common prison.
They also allowed us to call for whatever we chose; two officers belonging to them took particular care of us, the younger of whom could not refrain from tears. The head officers of the hussars also came to see us twice at the inn, and they did all in their power to comfort us; but nothing could now revive our broken spirits.
The thought of being exposed on the roads was too distressing to admit of consolation; their kindness was, however, in our present circumstances highly pleasing. Although it is some years since these events happened, yet the writer of this account declares her blood chills whenever she thinks on those dreadful days. Those who have experienced similar distress will excuse her for expressing herself so feelingly on the subject.
We left Noyon about nine o'clock on Tuesday morning, and had covered our veils with coloured handkerchiefs, and otherwise disguised our dress, that we might pass for French villagers, who wear no hats, and this precaution was of some use, for the people seemed at a loss what to make of us. About four in the afternoon we arrived at Compiègne, and here our guards left us, after having said much in our favour to the mayor and two other members of the district, whose charge it was to meet and receive prisoners attended by the National Guards. The hussars, our own friendly guards, who had all along shown us so much humanity, were natives of Normandy, most of them under twenty years of age. We were the more surprised at their charity, as they were very giddy and profane in their discourse to each other.
The prisoners brought from Cambray to Compiègne at that time were fifty-two in number, our community included. All were confined in one house; it had been ​a convent belonging to nuns of the Order of the Visitation, but was then a common prison. The gentlemen of the district of Compiègne frequently visited the place. Whenever they called upon us they asked a thousand questions, but upon the whole behaved with civility. The procurator syndic, observing us half starved and perishing with cold, had the goodness to write twice to Cambray to the municipality of that city, to desire they would return some part of our wearing apparel, but they never sent any. We had a room assigned us in the infirmary of the convent; the adjoining apartment was occupied by persons of all descriptions and ranks, their numbers increased daily—whole families were sometimes brought together. It seems this place had been fixed on in preference to Cambray because it was more within the reach of the assassins of Paris, who then deluged the streets of that capital with human blood. On the 25th of November 1793 a great number of prisoners were brought from Cambray, amongst whom were the Rev. Messrs. Walker and Higginson and the Hon. Thomas Roper. It is not easy to express the joy we felt on seeing Mr. Walker, for we had lost all hopes of ever seeing him again: he also seemed much affected. But this transient gleam of pleasure was not a little allayed by orders very soon given that we should by no means be allowed to converse with them, one of the members observing to his colleagues that if they were permitted to visit or see us, some part of religious worship might probably be kept up amongst us, which he said they were bound to root out entirely. After this we saw Mr. Walker, &c., but seldom, and always in fear. It certainly cost him much uneasiness to be obliged to pass his time with a set of men whose manners and conversation were shocking to every well-disposed person. Soon after this the very man who had with club in hand turned us out ​of our convent, was sent after us to the same prison, but was shortly after removed to Paris, where he ended a wretched life on the guillotine, which was the fate of many who had been particularly active in the Revolution. For a time the allowance was one pound of bread to each person per day, besides one good meal, the expense of which was to be defrayed by the prisoners conjointly, the rich paying for the poor, and strict orders were given that equality should be observed according to the new republican law.
About the beginning of June 1794, many of us fell sick, eight were confined to their beds at the same time, and the rest so much indisposed as to be scarcely able to help their dying sisters. A woman who provided us with milk took much compassion on us, and even assisted in taking care of the sick, but after a short time she fell ill herself, which unfortunately made others afraid to come near us. The disorder was a fever, proceeding, as the doctor who attended said, from great hardship and ill-usage. We had still only one room for the whole community, twenty-one in number, several of whom were now drawing near their end. Every person seemed to pity but none dare approach to help or comfort us, for the disease beginning to spread, each one trembled for himself.
It was now judged proper to allow an adjoining room, and the prisoners, who were about one hundred and sixty, were permitted to walk in the garden, a favour which till then had not been allowed.
Our windows were unnailed for benefit of fresh air, but it was in the middle of winter, and of course very damp and wet, so that this indulgence was of little or no real benefit. On the 12th of January, about two o'clock in the morning, the Rev. Mr. Walker felt himself very indisposed, but would not disturb Mr. Higginson, who slept in the ​same room, until his usual hour of rising. Amongst the prisoners was a physician from Cambray—a fortunate circumstance for the sick. He immediately declared Mr. Walker's case to be dangerous; his disorder increased rapidly, so as to alarm every one, for he was deservedly and universally esteemed. He fell into his agony the same evening, and breathed his last about two o'clock next morning, having been ill only twenty-four hours. His disorder was generally thought to be gout in the stomach, but the doctor who attended always affirmed that the many and great hardships he had undergone, together with want of food and requisites for a person of his age and declining health, had not a little contributed to hasten his death. This fatal catastrophe distressed us beyond expression; the circumstances we were then in made his loss still more deeply and severely felt and regretted.
He had for some years been as a father and exemplary friend to the community, having remained with us by choice in the very heat of the Revolution, when his life was particularly in danger—even at a time when he might, had he pleased, have lived comfortably in England.
During his long confinement he was never heard to let fall one word of complaint, although he suffered so much. He died as he had lived, a truly good religious, aged seventy-three. He had resided twenty years at Rome, and received distinguished tokens of esteem and favour from his late Holiness Pope Pius VI.
The last seventeen years of his life he had, with much honour to himself, and edification to his brethren, held the office of president general of the English Benedictine congregation.
The morning after Mr. Walker's decease, January 14th, whilst his corpse was unremoved, died Dame Anselm Ann, aged seventy-nine. The 21st of the same month also Dame Walmesley, aged fifty-five. About the same time ​Dame Margaret Burgess and Anne Pennington, lay sister. She had been of particular service in taking care of the sick. Her disorder was a gangrene in her arm, which from the first threatened her life. No resource could the prison afford, nor would the commissioner who was over us, though in the prison, and thoroughly acquainted with her distressing state, allow anything to be procured from the town, so that twenty-four hours had elapsed before any material service could be obtained, In the meantime the mortification had spread prodigiously, and her life was despaired of. She expired on the 6th of January, aged sixty.
Towards the beginning of March the same year, the surviving part of the community began to recover, though very slowly. The district of Compiègne now began to treat their prisoners with great severity; many had been sent from Cambray, their whole property had been seized, though no allowance was made towards their maintenance. On the 6th of March three of the members from the district of Compiègne came to the prison, escorted by a detachment of the National Guards. The prisoners were all ordered to assemble in a large room: part of our community were still confined by sickness, so that few only could attend. All the prisoners stood like condemned criminals. The procurator syndic made a long harangue, putting all in mind they had hitherto been served with one meal per day, but that nothing had been advanced for so liberal a treatment, that the people of Compiègne were resolved to reimburse themselves one way or other.
The prisoners alleged they had already been stripped of everything and their houses plundered, that to think of forcing more from them was cruel in the extreme. These expostulations, true as they really were, had not the least effect; the above procurator again and again repeated, that if the sum of French livres he demanded ​was not collected amongst them and sent to the district before ten o'clock next morning, they should be punished with the greatest rigour. The prisoners being by no means able to furnish the demanded sum, were on the 11th of March stinted to coarse brown bread and water. Many of us were still unwell when this severe order came out—some were even confined to their beds.
Six red herrings, which we happened to have by us when this command was given, was all that we had for three days, not being allowed to buy anything, not even a little salt. A surgeon of Compiègne, who had attended us during sickness, was compassionate enough to go to the district when the members were assembled, to beg as a favour they would permit a little broth to be procured for Dame Alexander, who was near eighty years old, and had been confined to her bed six weeks of a fever which terminated in an imposthume; but this indulgence was not granted; all we profited by the well-intentioned charity of this good man was a heap of compliments of condolence from the mayor and other magistrates for grievances which they themselves inflicted.
Our wants growing every day greater, we applied at last to some of the inhabitants of Compiègne for needlework; but the windows of the room we occupied being partly made up, little could be done, so that in order to raise money to buy bread we contrived privately to sell, though at great loss, a few gold crosses, &c., which we happened to have about us when we left Cambray.
The magistrates, finding nothing could be obtained from the above place, were every day still more importunate with the prisoners for money, which they had not to give. One day they came to take away the beds, which consisted of each a mattress and one blanket, but a charitable friend advanced money on condition they would leave ours one month longer; at the expiration of which they ​came again, but another friend interposed, and thus we went on, always under apprehension of being obliged to lie on a few handfuls of straw.
On the 17th of May 1794, at eight o'clock in the morning, about twenty members of the district of Compiègne, and six or seven of Robespierre's agents from Arras, came to the prison, escorted by one hundred and twenty guards.
The prisoners were immediately ordered each one to their own quarters, and a guard with a drawn sword was stationed within our room, strictly charged to take care we did not open a window, nor leave the apartment for one moment, and above all that we burnt no papers.
Some of us turned pale and nearly fainted, which the mayor perceiving, with his usual good nature, ordered the guard to sheathe his sword. An officer soon after making his round, asked the guard why he had not his sword drawn? He answered because we were afraid, at which the officer scornfully said something about the guillotine, and with horrid imprecations commanded the guard instantly to unsheathe it. This terrified us still more.
Whilst in this situation we heard the jailor repeatedly calling the prisoners separately, the men first, then the women, to a lower room, but not any of them returned. In this distress we durst not even speak to one another through fear of the guard.
After the most cruel suspense of about nine hours, we were ordered down. It was then five in the evening; before we had descended half-way downstairs, counter orders were given, and only one or two persons who could speak French were to be admitted—the rest returned with the guard. The commissioners began to search the pockets of the two religious above-named, but the mayor checked them, so that they were less insolent to them than to some others. Nothing of value being found upon them, ​they were dismissed, and the whole tribe of rough fellows, about thirty in number, came up with them to the apartment where we all were; one of them was a fallen priest. He could speak a little English, and was a busy man on the present occasion, and chief orator. He addressed us in a manner which seemed most proper to terrify, enumerating the punishments which would certainly be inflicted if we concealed either writing or anything of value from them.
The procuratrix produced the little paper money she had; the community in general assured them that all their writings, &c., had been taken from them at Cambray.
After asking many questions, and talking in a low voice to each other, they withdrew, leaving on the table the little paper money which we had produced, yet we durst not offer to take it. They then proceeded to search all the prisoners' beds, shaking the straw and moving everything about the room, and seized the most trifling things they met with, even to a silver thimble. During this examination they tore the females' caps off their heads (some of whom were ladies of quality), unpinned their gowns, and searched them in the most cruel manner. If they found a crucifix or reliquary of gold or silver, they took it; if of an inferior metal, they broke it and sometimes returned the bits to its owner.
From the Kev. James Higginson and Hon. Thomas Roper (the latter of whom was a very serviceable companion in prison), they took two metal watches, from the former two gold repeating watches which had belonged to the Rev. Messrs. Walker and Walsh. This last mentioned gentlemen had ended his life with us during the early part of the Revolution.
Having now stripped the other prisoners of everything, of even the smallest value, they were returning to our apartment, when one of the prisoners addressed the mayor ​as follows: "Surely, sir, you are not going to search these poor nuns a second time! You know how barbarously they have been used by the people of Cambray, and at present you are well assured they live in the greatest poverty, having only the small pittance which they gain by the needle to maintain them." The mayor seemed pleased with the person who spoke, and after a short pause turned off, called the guard out of the apartment, and soon after left the prison, attended by the administrators of the district, &c.
This was one of the most suffering days we ever passed, though at that time we experienced many. The prisoners from this time were treated with still greater rigour than ever, and were now reduced to the utmost distress. Some passed days and weeks with no other food than bread and water, and few entertained even a hope of escaping public execution, yet this seemed to have little or no effect on the morals of many. They were for the most part very ill livers, though few days passed but one or other was taken out of the Compiègne prison to be thrown into the dungeon, there to be ready for execution, and there some remained till the death of Robespierre; others were taken out of prison and an end put to their existence by the fatal guillotine. About the middle of June 1794 sixteen Carmelite nuns were brought to Compiègne and lodged in a room which faced ours; they had not been long there before they were hurried off to Paris, without any previous notice, for no other crime than that an emigrant priest, who had been their chaplain, had written to them and made mention of a bishop, who was also an emigrant, desiring compliments to an elderly gentleman who was cousin to one of the community. This person unfortunately possessed considerable property, a crime not easily overlooked in those days. This venerable man was also conducted to ​Paris with the nuns. A servant who attended him seemed ready to die with grief, and the good old gentleman shed tears at parting. The above religious quitted the Compiègne prison in the most saint-like manner. We saw them embrace each other before they set off, and they took an affectionate leave of us by the motion of their hands and other friendly gestures. On their way to the scaffold itself (as we were informed by an eyewitness of respectability and credit), they behaved with a firm and cheerful composure which nothing but a spotless conscience could inspire, resulting from a joyful hope and confidence in the blessed recompense that attended their sufferings in the cause of virtue. They repeated aloud on the scaffold the Litanies of the Blessed Virgin, until the fatal axe interrupted the voice of the last of this holy company. They suffered the 16th of July 1794.
One of the community happened to be absent when her sisters were taken to Paris; she concealed herself in different places during the life of the tyrant Robespierre.
After he ceased to exist, which event took place on the 28th of July 1794, she returned to Compiègne and frequently visited us.
She also favoured us with the names and ages of her deceased sisters, which are as follows:—
| | Age | | Age |
| Croisé | 49 | Brard | 58 |
| Froselle | 51 | Chretien | 52 |
| Hourrisset | 52 | Dufour | 29 |
| Le Donine | 42 | Fourcon | 45 |
| Libret | 34 | Fourcon | 55 |
| Touret | 79 | Bousset | 52 |
| Pidcourt | 98 | Nesolat | 30 |
| Brudeau | — | Mounier | — |
Two or three days after the Carmelites were gone to Paris, the mayor and two members of the district of ​Compiègne called upon us. We were still in our religious dress, which he had frequently urged us to change, but we always alleged that we had not money sufficient to furnish ourselves with clothes. The same day he returned to us again, called two of our company aside, and told them they must now absolutely put off that uniform, alluding to the habit, for that he durst no longer permit that prohibited dress; that should the people again become riotous, we should be more safe from their resentment in any other dress than the religious one. The truth was, he expected we should like the good Carmelites be soon conducted to Paris for execution, and was afraid he might be put to trouble if we were found in the conventual dress.
Being repeatedly assured we had not money to purchase clothes, he went himself to the apartment which those respectable ladies had occupied, and brought us some of the poor clothing they had left there; these he desired we would put on without delay. We were still in want of shoes: he very civilly said he would provide us with what we wanted, but one of the jailors standing by bluntly told us we should not long have occasion for shoes.
One day on leaving the room, the mayor, turning to the Rev. Mr. Higginson, in a low voice said, "Take care of your friends," meaning, prepare them for death, for he well knew Mr. Higginson had nothing else in his power. The next day the news became confirmed that the poor Carmelites had been put to death by the guillotine. The old clothes, which before appeared of small value, were now so much esteemed that we deemed ourselves unworthy to wear them; still, forced by necessity, we put them on, and these constituted the greater part of our mean apparel on our return to England. We yet keep them, a few excepted, which we have disposed of to particular friends. The prisoners of Compiègne were still pressed to pay off ​the old debt for the allowance of one meal per day which had been formerly given, as mentioned above, but now long since withdrawn, insomuch that during many months before we quitted this tedious confinement we were not even allowed bread unless we could pay for it. The two last months of the year 1794 and beginning of 1795 being extremely severe, we had much to suffer from wants of various kinds, especially of fuel and warm clothing, for no person had sufficient to keep herself, even the youngest of us, warm.
The room we inhabited was large and very cold, but no entreaties could obtain us more than one blanket each. The scarcity of provisions also increasing to a dreadful degree, bread was so hard to be procured that no inhabitant of the town was permitted to purchase more than a certain fixed allowance, which made a very scanty portion. Guards were placed at every baker's shop, and in their presence the bread was weighed out to each individual until the whole poor stock was distributed; but commonly there was not sufficient quantity to supply more than half the people, who were expecting to have each a little, so that no day passed without some tumult in the town. The bread in general was of the worst quality, yet we thought ourselves very fortunate when we could purchase a sufficient quantity to supply our large family. Very frequently after we had finished our meal we had not a morsel left for the next. The English throughout every part of France had repeatedly petitioned for some mitigation of their sufferings, and some had with becoming freedom pointed out the absurdity of detaining in confinement so many innocent sufferers, for the apprehension of whom there had never existed a pretext of justice. At last it was decreed that all foreigners should have for allowance two livres per day paper money. Bread was then sold at three livres per pound.
​Besides its being irregularly paid, it was quite insufficient to subsist upon, in the state in which France then was, paper money being then reduced to a very low ebb.
We received the above for the first time on the 23rd of December 1794. Its value was then computed at twopence-halfpenny, or at most threepence, per day English.
Some time after this, the prisoners began to be treated with more lenity than they had yet experienced. The Rev. James Higginson and the Hon. T. Roper had liberty to go into the town; this was of much service to us, for the latter of these gentlemen proved himself indefatigable in using every means possible to procure for us victuals and fuel—he even carried wood himself, and ran from shop to shop to buy us bread. Still, notwithstanding this seeming liberty, the situation was very disagreeable, though the soldiers had no longer power to command us as formerly, yet the street door was open night and day, so that we could not step out of our room without meeting crowds of people. One part of the prison being turned into a guard house, all came in and went out at pleasure. The garden, too, was always taken up by the soldiers and rabble. About this time the Convention frequently ordered the prisoners of war to be sent from one town to another, to show them to the people; when these companies passed through Compiègne, they were always lodged in our place of confinement, and nothing distressed us more than on such occasions to meet with brave Englishmen in want of the most common necessaries of life; and at the same time treated with the most inhuman scorn and contempt by the French Jacobins, who were quite elated to have an Englishman in their power. Whenever the above prisoners arrived, all was noise and confusion, and we often expected nothing less than to see the house on fire, for the ​weather being remarkably cold, they burnt everything they could lay hands on.
Seeing no prospect of an end to the miseries of an unhappy country, in which we had now long been sufferers, and provisions becoming daily more scarce and dear, so that it was now almost out of our power to procure them at any rate, we at last resolved to apply to Paris for passports to return to our native country.
The mayor of Compiègne privately advised us to take this step, and assured us of his assistance; accordingly a petition was drawn up and signed by the whole community. The mayor forwarded it to the Convention at Paris, and seconded it by a letter in our favour. About ten days after, our liberty was announced by the district of Compiègne. After this we endeavoured to procure (the good Carmelite above-mentioned assisting) sacred vessels and vestments, that we might have the happiness of assisting at one Mass, the only one during our eighteen months' confinement, and we were in the utmost alarm the whole time. To raise money for our journey, we contrived to draw privately from England by way of Hamburg, though at considerable loss. A most charitable gentleman, Edward Constable, Esq., of Burton, had two years before given us leave to call upon him for any money we might want in case of distress, which he seemed to foresee would happen. The horses being chiefly in use for the army, we found much difficulty to procure conveyance to Calais.
At last we quitted Compiègne, on the 24th of April 1795, in two carts. We took Cambray in our way, but had not courage to cast an eye upon our much-beloved but now lost convent.
On the 23rd of May 1795 we sailed from Calais, and on the 24th arrived in London.
Our return to England was no sooner known, than a ​lady, still more distinguished by her extensive charities than by her station in life, sent the chaplain of her family (a clergyman of the Established Church of England) to inform us that, conceiving our situation at a common inn to be exceedingly inconvenient and unpleasant, she had provided a house at the west end of the town for us during our residence in London. Here she was the first person to visit and comfort us. Struck with such marks of divine bounty in our regard, we ceased not to put up our prayers in behalf of the immediate instrument of it and of her noble relatives.
[The nuns first settled at Wootton, near Liverpool, removed in 1808 to Stratford-on-Avon, and have now a convent at Stanbrook, Worcestershire.]