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 monarchical 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 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 offended. No delicate nose grows deformed in my presence. I have no difficulty here in obtaining admission 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 turn with the kindness and deference paid to white people. When I go to church, I am met by no upturned nose and scorned lip to tell me, "We don't allow niggers in here!" I remember about two years ago, there was in Boston, near the southwest 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 doorkeeper in a harsh and contemptuous tone, "We don't allow niggers here!" I also remember attending a revival meeting in the Rev. Henry Jackson's meeting house, at New Bedford, and going up the broad aisle to find a seat. I was met by a good deacon, who told me in a pious tone, "We don't allow niggers here!" Soon after my arrival in New Bedford from the South, I had a strong desire to attend the Lyceum, but was told, "We don't allow niggers here!" While passing from New York to Boston on the steamer Massachusetts, on the night of the 9th Dec., 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 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 here!" A week or two before leaving the United States, I had a meeting appointed at Weymouth, the home of that glorious band of true abolitionists, the Weston family and others. On attempting to take a seat on the omnibus to that place, I was told by the driver (and I never shall forget the fiendish haste), "I don't allow niggers in here!"