And these the mixtures have so close pursued,
The very name and memory’s subdued.
No Roman now, no Briton does remain …
Fate jumbled them together, God knows how;
Whate’er they were, they’re true-born English now.
Defoe’s satirical work was levelled against the English for their mistreatment of the Dutch who arrived in Britain with William III. In the 300 years since it was written, one can add to Defoe’s ‘mixtures’ the Pole, American, Nigerian, Jamaican, Hungarian, Indian, Trinidadian, German and so on. In many ways, this anthology is an attempt to illustrate what Defoe perceived all those years ago: that British society has always been a melting pot of diverse cultural influences, and her heterogeneous condition runs very deep.
For British writers not born in Britain, the question of ‘belonging’ surfaces in their work in a variety of ways. Depending upon race, class and gender, the degree to which they feel alienated from British society will differ, and these variables will, of course, be further complicated by factors of time and historical circumstances. However, out of the tension between the individual and his or her society – in this case, British – the finest writing is often produced, and this would certainly seem to have been the case with reference to the work collected in this anthology. In their many different ways, all of the writers here are seeking to understand how they ‘belong’ to Britain.
The first group in the anthology comprises the black writers who emerged in the wake of the slave trade. Best exemplified by Olaudah Equiano, they grappled not only with the ethnic difficulties of belonging but also with linguistic problems. They were succeeded by a group of writers who were born in British colonies and were keen, if not altogether contented, observers of Britain. William Thackeray stands at the head of this nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century tradition, and to his name can be added those of Rudyard Kipling and George Orwell. The colonial subjects among whom these writers were born eventually began to express themselves in literature. These ‘subject’ writers, who betray a deep desire to ‘belong’ to the mother country, are primarily represented here by Caribbean migrants to Britain, C. L. R. James being the pre-eminent figure, along with writers such as Samuel Selvon and V. S. Naipaul.
In the second half of the twentieth century, the legacy of empire has produced writing by both descendants of the colonizers and descendants of the colonized. The former are represented by writers such as Jean Rhys, Doris Lessing, Penelope Lively and William Boyd, and the latter by Salman Rushdie, Linton Kwesi Johnson and Ben Okri among others. All of these, whether colonizers or colonized, seem to be carrying a freight of expectation with regard to Britain, and their various anxieties are reflected in the extracts here.
Standing somewhat apart from these groupings is a category that includes writers such as T. S. Eliot, George Szirtes and Kazuo Ishiguro, whose work exhibits an often microscopic concern with the nature of Britishness. Although these writers’ lives are unencumbered by the trappings of empire, it is clear that the powerful traditions of Britain exert a strong hold over their imaginations. Finally, there are the writers who, armed with the English language, appear to have moved to the literary centre in order to take part in a cosmopolitan world that is free from the difficulties of either geographical marginalization or political turbulence. Katherine Mansfield, Peter Porter and Christopher Hope would seem to fall into this group.
For many British people, to accept the idea that their country has a long and complex history of immigration would be to undermine their basic understanding of what it means to be British. One of my hopes in compiling and editing this anthology is that by engaging with the following writers and their work, readers will come to accept that as soon as one defines oneself as ‘British’ one is participating in a centuries-old tradition of cultural exchange, of ethnic and linguistic plurality, as one might expect from a proud nation that could once boast she ruled most of the known world. The evidence collected here confirms that one of the fortuitous byproducts of this heterogeneous history has been a vigorous and dynamic literature.
Caryl Phillips,
September 1996
Ukawsaw Gronniosaw
[1710-death unknown]
Ukawsaw Gronniosaw was born in Bornu, in the north-eastern tip of modern Nigeria. No biographical information exists on him apart from what is provided in his own Narrative, which was published in 1770. There we learn that he was born into an affluent family, his mother being the oldest daughter of the reigning king of Bornu; Gronniosaw was the youngest of six children. Due to his naturally inquisitive mind and his increasing dissatisfaction with family life in Bornu, Gronniosaw had decided to leave home by the time he was a teenager. He travelled with an ivory merchant to the coast of Africa but, on arrival, was betrayed. Sold into slavery, he passed into the hands of the captain of a Dutch ship bound for Barbados. In Barbados, Gronniosaw was sold on to a man from New England named Vanhorn who took him back to his home in New York as his servant. Among the visitors to his house was a minister called Mr Freelandhouse, who, taking a particular interest in Gronniosaw’s growing sense of God, bought him and set about teaching him the ways of Christianity.
Upon Freelandhouse’s death, Gronniosaw was granted his freedom. Inspired by an English minister, Mr Whitfield, whom he had heard preach in New York, Gronniosaw looked to England as his future home. Within days of arriving in Portsmouth, he was the victim of thieves. A disillusioned Gronniosaw headed for London, where he sought out his associate Mr Whitfield, who in turn helped him to find and pay for lodgings in Petticoat Lane, east London. Soon after, he left and spent a year in Amsterdam, but by 1763 or so Gronniosaw had returned to England to marry Betty, a weaver he had met in London. Before the wedding he was baptized by the eminent Baptist theologian Dr Andrew Gifford. Gronniosaw and Betty had three children.
The final section of Gronniosaw’s Narrative paints a graphic picture of the family’s decline into poverty in England. They were frequently near to starvation and eventually one of the children died. When a clergyman refused to bury his dead child, Gronniosaw’s otherwise cautious tone of humility in the Narrative becomes empowered by an underlying rage.
Gronniosaw’s account, although related by himself, was ‘committed to paper by the elegant pen of a young lady of the town of Leominster’. The reader cannot be certain whether the tone of humility that pervades the piece comes from the writer or from Gronniosaw himself. Nevertheless, the account marks an important beginning in the genre of slave narrative, and it is likely that those who went on to develop this form-principally Olaudah Equiano – would have read Gronniosaw’s story.
Gronniosaw is typical of early black writers in Britain in his somewhat naive faith that the country will redeem him from the miseries of servitude and slavery. In the following extract from his autobiographical Narrative (1770), we witness him passing through the uncomfortable stage in which his faith in the English is shattered, before beginning the difficult process of reconciling himself to a more realistic view of his new countrymen as individuals tainted by all the vices that are common to humanity.
The Shortcomings of Christian England
I never knew how to set a proper value on money. If I had but a little meat and drink to supply the present necessities of life, I never wished for more; and when I had any, I always gave it where I saw an object in distress. If it was not for my dear wife and children, I should pay as little regard to money now as I did at that time. I continued some time with Mr Dunscum as his servant, and he was very kind to me. But I had a vast inclination to visit England, and wished continually that it would please Providence to make a clear way for me to see this island. I entertained a notion that if I could get to England, I should never more experience either cruelty or ingratitude; so that I was very desirous to get among Christians. I knew Mr Whitfield very well. I had often heard him preach at New York. In this disposition I enlisted in the 28th regiment of foot, who were designed for Martinico, in the late war. We went in Admiral Pocock’s fleet from New York to Barbados, and from thence to Martinico. When that was taken, we proceeded to the Havannah, and took that place likewise. There I got discharged. I was at that time worth about thirty pounds, but I never regarded money in the least. I would not tarry for my prize-money, lest I should lose my chance of going to England. I went with the Spanish prisoners to Spain, and came to Old England with the English prisoners. I cannot describe my joy when we arrived within sight of Portsmouth. But I was astonished, when we landed, to hear the inhabitants of that place curse and swear, and be otherwise profane. I expected to find nothing but goodness, gentleness, and meekness in this Christian land, and I suffered great perplexity of mind at seeing so much wickedness.
I inquired if any serious Christian people resided there, and the woman I made the inquiry of answered me in the affirmative, and added that she was one of them. I was heartily glad to hear her say so. I thought I could give her my whole heart. She kept a public house. I deposited with her all the money that I had not an immediate occasion for, as I thought it would be safer with her. I gave her twenty-five guineas, six of which I desired her to lay out to the best advantage, in buying me some shirts, a hat, and some other necessaries. I made her a present of a very handsome large looking-glass that I brought with me from Martinico, in order to recompense her for the trouble I had given her. I must do this woman the justice to acknowledge that she did lay out some little for my use, but the nineteen guineas, and part of the six guineas, with my watch, she would not return, but denied that I ever gave them to her.
I soon perceived that I had got amongst bad people, who defrauded me of money and watch, and that all my promised happiness was blasted. I had no friend but God, and I prayed to him earnestly. I could scarcely believe it possible that the place where so many eminent Christians had lived and preached could abound with so much wickedness and deceit. I thought it worse than Sodom, considering the great advantage they possessed. I cried like a child, and that almost continually. At length God heard my prayers, and raised me up a friend indeed.
This publican had a brother who lived on Portsmouth Common, whose wife was a very serious, good woman. When she heard of the treatment I had met with, she came and inquired into my real situation, and was greatly troubled at the ill-usage I had received, and she took me home to her own house. I now began to rejoice, and my prayer was turned into praise. She made use of all the arguments in her power to prevail upon her who had wronged me to return my watch and money, but it was to no purpose, as she had given me no receipt, and I had nothing to show for it; so that I could not demand it. My good friend was excessively angry with her, and obliged her to give me back four guineas, which she said she gave me out of charity, though, in fact, it was my own, and a great deal more. She would have employed other means to oblige her to give up my money, but I would not suffer her. ‘Let it go,’ said I; ‘my God is in heaven.’ I did not mind my loss in the least. All that grieved me was that I had been disappointed in finding some Christian friends, with whom I hoped to enjoy a little sweet and comfortable society.
I thought the best method that I could take now was to go to London, and find out Mr Whitfield, who was the only living soul that I knew in England, and get him to direct me how to procure a living without being troublesome to any person. I took leave of my Christian friends at Portsmouth, and went in the stage to London. A creditable tradesman in the city, who went up with me in the stage, offered to show me the way to Mr Whitfield’s tabernacle, knowing that I was a perfect stranger. I thought it very kind, and accepted his offer; but he obliged me to give him half-a-crown for going with me, and likewise insisted on my giving him five shillings more for conducting me to Dr Gifford’s meeting.
I began now to entertain a very different idea of the inhabitants of England to what I had figured to myself before I came among them. Mr Whitfield received me very friendly, was heartily glad to see me, and directed me to a proper place to board and lodge, in Petticoat-lane, till he could think of some way to settle me in, and paid for my lodging, and all my expenses. The morning after I came to my new lodgings, as I was at breakfast with the gentlewoman of the house, I heard the noise of some looms over our heads, and upon inquiring what it was, she told me that a person was weaving silk. I expressed a great desire to see it, and asked if I might. She told me that she would go up with me, for she was sure that I should be very welcome; and she was as good as her word. As soon as we entered the room, the person that was weaving looked about and smiled upon us, and I loved her from that moment. She asked me many questions, and I, in return, talked a great deal to her. I found that she was a member of Mr Allen’s meeting, and I began to entertain a good opinion of her, though I was almost afraid to indulge this inclination, lest she should prove like the rest that I had met with, at Portsmouth, &c., and which had almost given me a dislike to all white women. But after a short acquaintance, I had the happiness to find that she was very different, and quite sincere, and I was not without hopes that she entertained some esteem for me. We often went together to hear Dr Gifford. As I had always a propensity to relieve every object in distress as far as I was able, I used to give to all that complained to me, sometimes half a guinea at a time, as I did not understand the real value of it. But this good woman took great pains to correct and advise me in that and many other respects.
After I had been in London about six weeks, I was recommended to the notice of some acquaintances of my late master, Mr Freeland-house, who had heard him speak frequently of me. I was much persuaded by them to go to Holland, as my master lived there before he bought me, and he used to speak of me so respectfully among his friends there that it raised in them a curiosity to see me, particularly the gentlemen engaged in the ministry, who expressed a desire to hear my experience and to examine me. I found that it was my good old master’s design that I should have gone if he had lived, for which reason I resolved upon going to Holland, and informed my dear friend Mr Whitfield of my intention. He was much averse to my going at first; but after I gave him my reasons he appeared very well satisfied. I likewise informed my Betty (the good woman that I have just named) of my determination to go to Holland, and told her I believed she was to be my wife; and if it was the Lord’s will I desired it, but not else. She made me very little answer, but has since told me that she did not think it at that time.
Ignatius Sancho
[1729–80]
Ignatius Sancho was born on board a slave ship sailing from the Guinea coast to the West Indies. During the voyage, both his parents died. At the age of two he was brought to England from the West Indies and passed into the hands of three maiden sisters in Greenwich, south London. The women, as Sancho later wrote in a letter to the novelist Laurence Sterne, ‘judged Ignorance the best and only security for obedience’. By chance, at the age of twenty, Sancho met the Duke of Montagu in the Greenwich area. The Duke, well known for his views against slavery and racism, was attracted to Sancho’s spirit, as yet unbroken by servitude, and he decided to make him his protégé. He allowed him to borrow books and secured for him the education that Sancho’s mistresses had wilfully denied him.
When the Duke died in 1749, Sancho unlawfully fled from the three sisters and took service with the Duchess of Montagu. Two years later, the Duchess died, leaving Sancho a considerable amount of money. However, this he soon squandered on gambling and women, and he returned to service with the Montagu family. During the years that Sancho served them, he gained the admiration of many people, such as Samuel Johnson, Laurence Sterne and the actor David Garrick. It was through these friendships that Sancho developed his passion for the theatre and the arts. Respected for his solid judgement in these fields, he befriended musicians, painters and sculptors, attempted acting and wrote music, some of which still survives. Gainsborough made him the subject of a portrait, and it is thought that he is depicted in one of Hogarth’s paintings. Sancho married Anne, a West Indian woman, and had six children. By 1773, overweight and suffering from gout, he was no longer physically able to work as a servant and so he opened a grocery business in London’s Mayfair.
Having spent most of his life in a relatively secure middle-class environment, Sancho’s letters (published as Letters of the Late Ignatius Sancho, 1782) show him to be the most integrated of the black British writers in England at that time. His near contemporaries such as Equiano had begun their lives in Africa, but Sancho had no direct memories of his homeland, nor had he suffered to the same extent under slavery. While these writers had obtained their inspiration and unique style through personal suffering, Sancho owed much of his style to the fashion of the circles he moved in. The sentimentality of a writer such as Sterne was well suited to Sancho’s favourite subject, domestic life. However, when writing on topics such as British politics and the abolition of slavery, Sancho’s ‘Britishness’ becomes mixed with an ironic sense of his own detachment. In one instance, he describes himself as ‘only a lodger [in England] – and hardly that’; clearly he is always aware of himself as an African in England. Nevertheless, Sancho remains the most urbane and mannered of those of African descent who were writing in Britain in the eighteenth century.
Sancho’s letters, while never descending to protestation, are often mildy critical of his adopted country. At the same time, they exhibit a desperate need to belong. Such a need is clearly displayed in the following letter to Laurence Sterne, which, while praising Sterne as a novelist in general and as somebody who has spoken out against slavery in particular, begs him to do more to help Sancho’s ‘miserable black brethren’.
To Mr Sterne
July, 1776
REVEREND SIR,
It would be an insult on your humanity (or perhaps look like it) to apologize for the liberty I am taking. – I am one of those people whom the vulgar and illiberal call ‘Negurs’ – The first part of my life was rather unlucky, as I was placed in a family who judged ignorance the best and only security for obedience. – A little reading and writing I got by unwearied application. – The latter part of my life has been – thro’ God’s blessing, truly fortunate, having spent it in the service of one of the best families in the kingdom. – My chief pleasure has been books. – Philanthropy I adore. – How very much, good Sir, am I (amongst millions) indebted to you for the character of your amiable uncle Toby! – I declare, I would walk ten miles in the dog-days, to shake hands with the honest corporal. – Your Sermons have touch’d me to the heart, and I hope have amended it, which brings me to the point. – In your tenth discourse, page seventy-eight, in the second volume – is the very affecting passage – ‘Consider how great a part of our species – in all ages down to this – have been trod under the feet of cruel and capricious tyrants, who would neither hear their cries, nor pity their distresses, – Consider slavery – what it is – how bitter a draught and how many millions are made to drink it!’ – Of all my favourite authors, not one has drawn a tear in favour of my miserable black brethren – excepting yourself, and the humane author of Sir George Ellison. – I think you will forgive me; – I am sure you will applaud me for beseeching you to give one half-hour’s attention to slavery, as it is at this day practised in our West Indies. – That subject, handled in your striking manner, would ease the yoke (perhaps) of many – but if only of one – Gracious God! – what a feast to a benevolent heart! – and, sure I am, you are an epicurean in acts of charity. – You, who are universally read, and as universally admired – you could not fail – Dear Sir, think in me you behold the uplifted hands of thousands of my brother Moors. – Grief you pathetically observe is eloquent; – figure to yourself their attitudes; – hear their supplicating addresses! – alas! – you cannot refuse. – Humanity must comply – in which hope I beg permission to subscribe myself,
Reverend Sir, &c.
IGN. SANCHO
