2

and spurns with contempt the idea of treating me differently. So th
I am an outcast from the society of my childhood; and an outlaw in the
land of my birth. "I am a stranger with thee, and a sojourner as all
my fathers were." That men should be patriotic is to me perfectly
natural, and as a philosophical fact, I am able to give it an intel-
lectual recognition. But no farther can I go. If ever I had any pa-
triotism, or any capacity for the feeling, it was whipped out of me
long since by the lash of the American slave-drivers.

In thinking of America, I sometimes find myself admiring her
bright blue sky-- her grand old woods-- her fertile fields-- her beau-
tiful rivers-- her mighty lakes, and star-crowned mountains. But my
rapture is soon checked, my joy is soon turned to mourning. When I
remember that all is cursed with the infernal spirit of slaveholding,
robbery and wrong,-- when I remember that with the waters of her no-
blest rivers, the tears of my brethren are borne to the ocean, disre-
garded and forgotten, and that her most fertile fields drink daily of
the warm blood of my outraged sisters, I am filled with unutterable
loathing, and led to reproach myself that anything could fall from my
lips in praise of such a land. America will not allow her children to
love her. She seems bent on compelling those who would be her warmest
friends, to be her worst enemies. May God give her repentance before
it is too late, is the ardent prayer of my heart. I will continue to
pray, labor and wait, believing that she cannot always be insensible to
the dictates of justice, or deaf to the voice of humanity.

My opportunities for learning the character and condition of the
people of this land have been very great. I have travelled almost
from the hills of Howth to the Giant's Causeway, and from the Giant's
Causeway to Cape Clear. During these travels I have met with much in
the character and condition of the people to approve, and much to con-
demn-- much that has thrilled me with pleasure-- and very much that has
filled me with pain. I will not, in this letter, attempt to give any

3

description of those scenes which have given me pain. This I will do
hereafter. I have enough, and more than your subscribers will be dis-
posed to read at one time, of the bright side of the picture. I can
truly say, I have spent some of the happiest moments of my life since
landing in this country. I seem to have undergone a transformation.
I live a new life. The warm and generous co-operation 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 enthusiasm with
which thousands have flocked to hear the cruel wrongs of my down-trod-
den and long-enslaved fellow-countrymen portrayed-- the deep sympathy
for the slave, and the strong abhorrence of the slaveholder, everywhere
evinced-- the cordiality with which members and ministers of various
religious bodies, and of various shades of religious opinions, have em-
braced me, and lent me their aid-- the kind hospitality constantly
proffered to 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 everything that looked like prejudice against me,
on account of the color of my skin-- contrasted so strongly with my
long and bitter experience in the United States, that I look with won-
der 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 the 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
whatsoever."-- Brev. Digest, 224. 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 question) denied the privileges and courtesies common to others
in the use of the most humble means of conveyance-- shut out from the
cabins of steamboats-- refused admission to respectable hotels--

4

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 the 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 grey 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 his
slave, or offer me an insult. I employ a cab-- I am seated beside
white people-- 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 offend-
ed. No delicate nose grows deformed in my presence. I find no dif-
ficulty here in obtaining admission into any place of worship, instruc-
tion 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 complex-
ion. I find myself regarded and treated at every turn with the kind-
ness and deference paid to the white people. When I go to church, I
am met by no upturned nose and scornful lip to tell me, "We don't al-
low niggers in here!"

I remember about two years ago, there was in Boston, near the
south-west corner of Boston Common, a menagerie. I had long desired
to see such a collection as I understood were being exhibited there.
Never having had an opportunity while a slave, I resolved to seize this
my first since my escape. I went, and as I approached the entrance to
gain admission, I was met and told by the door-keeper, in a harsh and
contemptuous tone, "We don't allow niggers in here!" I also remember
attending a revival meeting in the Rev. Henry Jackson's meeting-house,
at New Bedford, and going up the broad isle to find a seat, I was met
by a good deacon, who told me, in a pious tone, "We don't allow nig-
gers in here!" Soon after my arrival in New Bedford from the South,
I had a strong desire to attend the Lyceum, but was told, "They don't

5

allow niggers in here!" While passing from New York to Boston on the steamer Massachusetts, on the night of Dec. 9th 1843, when chilled almost through with the cold, I went into the cabin to get a little warm. I was soon touched upon the shoulder and told, "We don't allow niggers in here!" On arriving in Boston from an anti-slavery tour, hungry and tired, I went into an eating house near my friend Mr. Campbell's to get some refreshments. I was met by a lad in a white apron, "We don't allow niggers in here!" said he. A week or two before leaving the United States, I had a meeting appointed at Weymouth. On attempting to take a seat in the omnibus, I was told by the driver, (and I shall never forget his fiendish hate) "I don't allow niggers in here!"

Thank Heaven for the respite I now enjoy! I had been in Dublin but a few days, when a gentleman of great respectability kindly offered to conduct me through all the public buildings of that beautiful city; and a little afterwards, I found myself dining with the Lord Mayor of Dublin. What a pity there was not some American Democratic Christian at the door of his splendid mansion, to bark out at my approach, "They don't allow niggers in here!" The truth is, the people here know nothing of the Republican Negro hate prevalent in our glorious land. They measure and esteem men according to their moral and intellectual worth, and not according to the color of their skin. Whatever may be said of the Aristocracies here, there is none based on the color of a man's skin. This species of Aristocracy belongs pre-eminently to the land of the free and the home of the brave. I have never found it abroad, in any but Americans. It sticks to them wherever they go. They find it almost as hard to get rid of it as to get rid of their skins.

The second day after my arrival at Liverpool, in company with my friend Buffum, and several other friends, I went to Eaton Hall, the residence of the Marquis of Westminster, one of the most splendid buildings in England. On approaching the door, I found several of our

6

American passengers, who came out with us in the Cambria, waiting at
the door for admission, as but one party was allowed in the house at
a time. We all had to wait till the company within came out. And of
all the faces, expressive of chagrin, those of the Americans were pre-
eminent. They looked as sour as vinegar, and bitter as gall, when
they found I was to be admitted on equal terms with themselves. When
the door was opened, I walked in on an equal footing with my white fel-
low-citizens, and from all I could see I had as much attention paid me
by the servants that showed us through the house, as any with a paler
skin. As I walked through the building, the statuary did not fall
down, the pictures did not leap from their places, the doors did not
refuse to open, and the servants did not say, "We don't allow niggers
in here!"

Excuse this imperfect scrawl, and believe me to be ever and always
yours,

Frederick Douglass.