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190 LIFE AND TIMES OF FREDERICK DOUGLASS

a transformation. I live a new life. The warm and generous coöperation
extended to me by the friends of my despised race; the prompt and liberal
manner with which the press has rendered me its aid; the glorious enthusi-
asm with which thousands have flocked to hear the cruel wrongs of my
down-trodden and long-enslaved fellow-countrymen portrayed; the deep
sympathy for the slave, and the strong abhorrence of the slaveholder every-
where evinced; the cordiality with which members and ministers of various
religious bodies, and of various shades of religious opinion have embraced
me and lent me their aid; the kind hospitality constantly proffered me by
persons of the highest rank in society; the spirit of freedom that seems to
animate all with whom I come in contact, and the entire absence of every-
thing that looks like prejudice against me, on account of the color of my
skin, contrasts so strongly with my long and bitter experience in the United
States, that I look with wonder and amazement on the transition. In the
southern part of the United States. I was a slave—thought of and spoken of
as property; in the language of law, 'held, taken, reputed, and adjudged to be
a chattel in the hands of my owners and possessors, and their executors,
administrators, and assigns, to all intents, constructions, and purposes, what-
soever.' (Brev., "Digest," vol. II, 229.) In the Northern States, a fugitive
slave, liable to be hunted at any moment like a felon, and to be hurled into
the terrible jaws of slavery—doomed by an inveterate prejudice against
color, to insult and outrage on every hand (Massachusetts out of the ques-
tion)—denied the privileges and courtesies common to others in the use of
the most humble means of conveyance—shut out from the cabins on steam-
boats, refused admission to respectable hotels, caricatured, scorned, scoffed,
mocked, and maltreated with impunity by any one (no matter how black his
heart), so he has a white skin. But now behold the change! Eleven days and
a half gone, and I have crossed three thousand miles of perilous deep.
Instead of a democratic government, I am under a monarchial government.
Instead of the bright, blue sky of America, I am covered with the soft, gray
fog of the Emerald Isle. I breathe, and lo! the chattel becomes a man! I gaze
around in vain for one who will question my equal humanity, claim me as a
slave, or offer me an insult. I employ a cab—I am seated beside white peo-
ple—I reach the hotel—I enter the same door—I am shown into the same
parlor—I dine at the same table—and no one is offended. No delicate nose
grows deformed in my presence. I find no ditliculty here in obtaining admis-
sion into any place of worship, instruction, or amusement, on equal terms,
with people as white as any I ever saw in the United States. I meet nothing
to remind me of my complexion. I find myself regarded and treated at every