Phillis Wheatley

What distinction made your name known in England and the American colonies?

I became known as the first African American to publish a book of poetry. My collection appeared in London in 1773, after I traveled there with Nathaniel Wheatley to seek publication and partly for my health. Selina Hastings, Countess of Huntingdon, helped finance it. The book brought recognition in England and the American colonies, where many had doubted that an enslaved African could write poetry. Its appearance mattered not only as a personal accomplishment, but as an answer to those doubts. The Wheatleys freed me shortly after its publication.

Why should readers turn to your poems for comfort and hope?

I offer comfort through poems that acknowledge loss before turning toward hope. Many of my elegies were written for families mourning a child, a spouse, or a friend. I do not treat their sorrow as something small. My Christian faith leads me to imagine the dead at rest in heaven, beyond earthly suffering. Readers may also find hope in my insistence upon the worth of every soul. Grief and injustice are present in my writing, but neither has the final claim upon human dignity or the hopes sustained by faith.

What one piece of advice would you give someone reading your poetry?

I would ask you to notice where a poem turns. A verse may begin with grief, gratitude, or a familiar religious thought, then move toward a claim about freedom or the worth of African people. Those changes matter as much as the polished rhyme. In the elegies, attend to the movement from sorrow toward consolation; in the classical poems, consider my wish to stand among the writers I studied. Read slowly enough to hear both the formal pattern and the human concern it carries. Neither needs to obscure the other.

What achievement in your life gives you the most reason for pride?

I would place the publication of my poetry foremost. To gather thirty-nine poems into a book, when many denied that an enslaved African could write them, gave my work a public place that prejudice would have refused it. The collection allowed me to speak of faith, mourning, imagination, and freedom in forms I had studied with care. Recognition mattered, but so did the poems themselves: they carried my thought beyond those who knew me. It remained the only book of poetry I published during my lifetime.

What did poverty teach you about the limits of literary recognition?

My book brought recognition in England and the American colonies, but that recognition did not protect me from poverty. Praise for poetry and relief from hardship are different things. When my husband was imprisoned for debt in 1784, I worked as a scullery maid. The contrast is painful: my poems could gain readers and demonstrate abilities that others had doubted, yet daily life remained difficult. I value the place my writing has won, but literary honor alone cannot provide lasting security. Human dignity must mean more than admiration for an accomplishment.

Why did you argue that enslaved people deserve natural-born rights?

I argued for enslaved people's natural-born rights because freedom should not be withheld from them. I had myself been sold into slavery as a child, and my writing joined concern for liberty with belief in human dignity. In my letter to Reverend Samson Occom, I affirmed those rights directly. In my poems, I also insisted that people of African descent could share in Christian salvation. These convictions belong together: I believed every soul had equal worth before God, and I called for freedom to extend to those held in slavery.

How does the hope of heaven help people endure suffering?

I found in the hope of heaven a comfort that earthly suffering could not wholly take away. My faith taught me to look beyond grief toward rest with God, where the sorrows of this life would not have the final word. In my poems of mourning, I did not pass over the pain of losing someone dear. I named that loss before turning toward consolation. The hope of heaven allows sorrow and trust to stand together: the heart may grieve deeply while still believing that earthly separation is not the end.

What comfort does your faith offer someone anxious about death?

I would speak of the hope my Christian faith gave me: that death need not be understood only as an ending, but also as a passage toward rest with God. In my elegies, I turned from the anguish of loss toward the comfort of heaven. This did not make earthly affection unimportant or mourning needless. Rather, it placed those feelings within a greater hope. I believed that every soul has worth before God, and that salvation is not confined by the distinctions people make between one another.

How do your elegies connect a short earthly life with eternity?

In my elegies, I begin with the loss that people must bear on earth, then turn their thoughts toward heaven. A life may be brief, yet its worth is not measured only by its length. My Christian belief gave me a way to place that short life within the hope of eternity. I wrote for families mourning children, spouses, and friends, and sought to honor their grief while offering consolation. The movement from sorrow toward heavenly rest joins what is painfully temporary with what faith teaches us to hope will endure.

What obstacles did you overcome to publish your first book?

I faced more than the difficulty of finding readers for poetry. I was enslaved, and many colonists doubted that an African could have written my poems. In 1772, leading men in Boston examined me and signed a statement confirming my authorship; that statement accompanied my collection. I traveled to London with Nathaniel Wheatley in 1773 to seek publication, partly also for my health. With help from the Countess of Huntingdon, my book appeared there. Its publication gave my work recognition, and the Wheatleys freed me shortly afterward.

How did your political hopes change as the American Revolution grew?

My earlier verse welcomed King George III's repeal of the Stamp Act, and I expressed the hope that freedom would reach his enslaved subjects as well. As the American Revolution gained strength, I came to support the rebellious colonists, addressing George Washington in verse. Yet the question of liberty could not end with those who already possessed it. I also held that enslaved people should receive their natural-born rights. Across these hopes, my concern was that the desire for freedom should reach beyond a narrow circle of people.

How does your belief in salvation answer the fear of suffering?

I understood salvation as a hope greater than the suffering of earthly life. That belief did not require me to pretend that grief was small. Much of my poetry concerns loss, and its comfort comes after sorrow has been acknowledged. Faith turns the mind toward God's goodness and toward heaven as a place of rest. I also insisted that people of African descent could share in Christian salvation. Before God, the worth of a soul does not depend upon the judgments or distinctions that people impose upon it.

Why should liberty extend to people held in slavery?

I believed that enslaved people should receive their natural-born rights. Liberty cannot be treated as the rightful possession of some while others are excluded because of their descent or their condition of bondage. My Christian faith also taught me the equal worth of every soul before God. In my poetry, I affirmed that people of African descent could share in salvation, and I hoped that freedom would extend to those held in slavery. These convictions belong together: human dignity is not something that another person's ownership can erase.

What does your struggle to publish reveal about rejection and ability?

My struggle to publish shows how prejudice can stand between ability and recognition. The doubts raised against my poems were not simply judgments about their form or meaning; many people doubted that an enslaved African could write them at all. I had to undergo an examination, and a signed statement confirming my authorship appeared with the book. Yet those doubts did not determine what I was capable of writing. My collection brought together faith, mourning, classical learning, and hopes for freedom, giving readers the poems themselves to consider.

Why do you open your collection with To Maecenas?

I open with To Maecenas because it places my poetry in conversation with the classical writers I studied. Maecenas was the Roman patron associated with Virgil and Horace, and addressing him lets me consider both those earlier poets and my own place beside them. Before the reader reaches the other subjects of my collection, I present myself as a writer seeking entry into that tradition. My learning is not separate from my poetry; it helps give my voice its form.

What classical story do you retell in Niobe in Distress?

In Niobe in Distress, I retell a story of Niobe drawn from Ovid's ancient world. It is the longest poem in my collection and belongs among the works in which I turn to classical myth rather than a contemporary occasion. I bring that inherited tale into the same book as my hymns and elegies. The subjects differ, but classical learning and grief both have a place in my writing, alongside the Christian faith that holds the collection together as a whole.

What did you celebrate in To the King's Most Excellent Majesty?

In To the King's Most Excellent Majesty, I welcomed King George III's repeal of the Stamp Act. Yet my praise also carried a hope about freedom: I wished liberty to reach the king's enslaved subjects. Those concerns belong together in my writing. A poem addressed to a ruler could offer gratitude while also asking that the blessing being celebrated extend further. My concern was not only with relief for some, but with the freedom still denied to people held in slavery.

How does To His Excellency, George Washington express your political support?

In To His Excellency, George Washington, I expressed support for the rebellious colonists as the American Revolution gained strength. Addressing Washington directly made that support a public part of my poetry, rather than leaving it unspoken. My position was not fixed forever in the earlier praise I had offered the king. Freedom remained an important concern in my writing, while the person I addressed and the cause I supported changed with the struggles unfolding during my own lifetime.

What case for enslaved people's rights did you make in your letter to Samson Occom?

In my letter to Reverend Samson Occom, I argued that enslaved people should receive their natural-born rights in America. Freedom was not a blessing that ought to belong to one group while another remained in bondage. That claim stands beside my belief in the equal worth of every soul before God. I could write of Christian hope beyond suffering without treating earthly freedom as unimportant. The rights of enslaved people concerned their lives here, not only their hope of heaven.

How do your elegies move from naming a loss to offering consolation?

My elegies begin by acknowledging who has died and the grief left among those who remain. I do not leave the poem at that point of sorrow. I turn toward Christian hope, picturing the dead at rest in heaven and looking beyond present suffering. Many of these poems were written for Boston families mourning a child, a spouse or a friend. Their consolation rests on faith: loss is painful, yet I believe that earthly death need not be the end of hope.

How did the ship that brought you to Boston give you your name?

I arrived in Boston in 1761 aboard a ship called the Phillis, after being sold into slavery as a child. John Wheatley bought me for his wife, Susanna, and the family gave me the ship’s name as my first name and their own surname. Thus the name by which my poems became known carried both the vessel that brought me from Africa and the household that owned me. My beginnings were in West Africa, though my exact birthplace and birth date are not documented.

How did Mary and Nathaniel Wheatley help you learn to read and write?

Mary and Nathaniel Wheatley taught me to read and write in the household where I was enslaved. Their teaching opened the way to the Bible, to English poetry, and to the ancient writers whose work helped shape my own. By twelve, I was reading Greek and Latin classics in their original languages, as well as difficult passages of scripture. I cannot give a detailed account of each lesson, but learning became central to my writing. Faith and classical poetry together gave me subjects and forms through which to speak.

Why did leading men in Boston examine your ability to write poetry in 1772?

In 1772, leading men in Boston examined me because many colonists doubted that an enslaved African could have written my poems. Their doubt rested on prejudice about African ability, not simply on questions about a particular verse. I had to establish that the writing was mine before it could reach readers with their approval. After examining me, they signed a statement confirming my authorship. My learning and poetry should have been enough, yet the book also had to carry this formal evidence of what I could do.

Why was the signed statement of your authorship printed in your book?

The signed statement appeared in my book to assure doubtful readers that I had written the poems myself. Eighteen leading men of Boston had examined me and confirmed my ability, and their names stood before the verses as testimony. Its presence shows the obstacle my book faced: many readers were unwilling to believe that an enslaved African woman could write poetry. I sought a place among poets through the poems themselves, but the statement helped answer those who questioned my authorship before they had even considered my work.

Why did you travel to London with Nathaniel Wheatley in 1773?

I traveled to London with Nathaniel Wheatley in 1773 to seek publication of my poems, and partly for my health. The journey brought my writing toward the book I hoped to place before readers. With help from Selina Hastings, Countess of Huntingdon, my collection appeared in London that year. It gathered thirty-nine poems, including hymns, elegies, classical tales, and addresses. Publication brought recognition in England and the American colonies, and the Wheatleys freed me shortly afterward. The volume remained the only book of poetry published during my lifetime.

How did the Countess of Huntingdon help bring your book into print?

Selina Hastings, Countess of Huntingdon, helped finance my book. That support assisted the publication of my collection in London in 1773, when I had traveled there with Nathaniel Wheatley to seek a publisher and partly for my health. I would not claim details of her arrangements beyond that help. What reached readers was a gathering of thirty-nine poems, concerned with faith, mourning, classical stories, human dignity, and freedom. Her assistance helped those poems appear together in the only poetry book I published during my lifetime.

How did you use rhymed couplets to carry your own concerns?

I used the rhymed couplet, a polished form familiar to readers of my time, to speak of matters close to my own life and belief. Its ordered lines could hold sorrow, praise, a story from antiquity, or a careful appeal for liberty. I learned from writers such as Alexander Pope, but my concerns were my own: Christian hope, the dignity of African people, and freedom. At times a poem begins in gratitude or mourning and then turns toward a larger claim about the worth of a human soul.

How did evangelical Christianity shape your belief in the equal worth of souls?

Evangelical Christianity, with its emphasis on personal conversion and the equal worth of souls before God, helped shape my faith and poetry. I believed that people of African descent could share in Christian salvation, and I addressed readers who needed to recognize that truth. In my poems, earthly suffering does not place a soul beyond God’s care, nor does African descent exclude anyone from heaven. That belief also gave my elegies their movement toward consolation: I mourned loss while looking toward the hope of rest beyond suffering.