“Go, Frederick,” his co-workers urged him. “They are Quakers. They have influence. You will come back rested.” Fall was closing around London like a shroud, but Clapham was delightful. The Howitts greeted him warmly. “We have read your _Narrative_, so you are an old friend.” This was Frederick’s initiation into English country life. He walked out into the beautiful garden where, rounding a smilax, he almost stepped on Hans Christian Andersen! It was Mary and William Howitt who had translated the Danish writer’s works into English. Andersen was very fond of them, and their home in Clapham was his haven. When they had guests he could always putter about in the garden. He knew that the famous ex-slave was coming that afternoon, but he would meet him after the tea party was over. Now, on his knees, trowel in hand, a smudge of mud on his nose, he stared with amazement. _So much of darkness and beard--and what a head!_ A peal of musical laughter behind him caused Frederick to turn. The funny little man scrambled to his feet and Mary Howitt, who had followed Frederick into the garden, was saying, “It is our dear Hans.” Andersen knew very little English and Frederick had never before heard Danish, so they could do very little more than grin at each other. But later, before an open fire, Frederick read Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy stories, while Andersen, sipping his brandy, watched the expressive dark face. Their eyes met, and they were friends. The next day Douglass asked the Howitts about their translations and what it meant to study languages other than one’s native tongue. Then the writer of fairy tales began to talk. He spoke in Danish, and Mary interpreted. He talked of languages, of their background and history. He told Frederick about words and their symbolic magic. And another corner of Frederick’s brain unfolded itself. * * * * * There was too much rain the summer and fall of 1845. Robert Peel, Prime Minister of Great Britain, stood at his window and watched it beat down on the slippery stones of the court. But he was not seeing the paving stones, he was not seeing the dripping walls. He was seeing unripened spikes of wheat rotting in the mud. He knew he had a crisis on his hands and he was not ready. Robert Peel was a Tory. His background and education, his administration as Secretary of Ireland, his avowed policies, all had been those of the Conservative party. In appearance he was cold and proud. But he was an honest man, and he grew in wisdom.