When France collapsed into revolution in 1789, it was not only kings and queens who lost their heads. The Terror forced thousands of families, priests and aristocrats to flee across the Channel. Between 1789 and 1815, an estimated 150,000 émigrés arrived in Britain. They came destitute, stripped of wealth and dignity, preyed upon by traffickers and sailors who robbed or drowned them. Some arrived half-dead on Brighton’s beaches.
The public reaction was divided. Pamphleteers warned that the newcomers would take jobs, houses and wives. The government passed the Alien Act of 1793, forcing foreigners to register or face deportation, fearing revolution would spread here. Priests found little welcome in a Protestant country; impoverished aristocrats huddled in Soho and Bath. Suspicion was official policy.
And yet, at the same time, there was generosity. Charity commissions sprang up in London, Brighton and Bath. Wealthy sympathisers like Mary Fitzherbert, the Prince Regent’s mistress, raised funds. Communities opened their doors. Some émigrés rebuilt lives as teachers, bookbinders and dancing masters. The very people who had been mocked in pamphlets ended up enriching British life.
The echoes with today are uncomfortable. Then, boatloads of desperate families crossed the Channel; now we debate dinghies in Dover. Then, they were exploited by sailors; now, by smugglers. Then, legislation sought to register or deport them; now, the talk is of detentions and pushbacks. Then, they were accused of stealing livelihoods; now, the same words ring out.
History offers us a mirror. And it does not flatter.
One émigré, accused of coming to take jobs and homes, gave a reply that still cuts through the noise: “Do you think we want to be in your country? We do not speak your language. We do not share your religion. If our country were at peace, we would not be here at all.”
Refugees never leave home lightly. They are not opportunists but survivors of terror, war and collapse. In the 1790s, those who reached Britain brought skills, culture and resilience. Today’s refugees are no different. The question is whether we allow ourselves to see them as people — or only as threats.
The challenge, then as now, is whether fear drowns out compassion. In the 1790s Britain chose both: suspicion at the border, but humanity in communities. That dual response meant that while politics hardened, ordinary acts of kindness helped refugees survive.
We have the same choice today. Fear is always the louder voice — in pamphlets then, in headlines now. But history reminds us that the quieter voice of compassion has the longer echo. The compassion of the 1790s is still felt, in the schools, churches and traditions refugees built.
Our response to those seeking refuge in 2025 will be remembered just as surely. The mirror of history is clear: what we choose in the moment of crisis will outlast us. The only question is whether we want the echo of fear — or of compassion.
