The rest of this letter is missing, but from this time on her letters became frequent, and we are able to follow her, almost day by day.

Her health by this time was much improved. She established pleasant lodgings in London, where her old friends the Sheldons and her new friends the Taylors were, and followed her lifelong habits by rising at five o’clock in the morning and getting in four and a half hours’ activity before any one else in the house appeared for breakfast. She heard Stanley, who had just returned from Africa, and, in the controversy which ensued between him and the Geographical Society, she became a warm partisan of Stanley. Antoinette Margot joined her. She, too, had lived through the war without breaking down, but, when she had nothing to do but to sit down at Carlsruhe and paint, she gave way to nervous overstrain. Mrs. Taylor found her Italian trip rather too much for her and wanted a quiet place outside of London, so they rented a summer home in the Isle of Wight and there spent some restful and health-giving weeks. For a company of nervous invalids, they appear to have had a very merry time. The following jingle was written in London in 1872 for reading at a social gathering of a few families and America’s friends, who met once a week for social intercourse over a cup of tea and light refreshments, enlivened by recitations.

The family names are somewhat significant—Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, Mr. and Mrs. Bacon, Mr. and Mrs. Darling, and Mrs. Cynthia Care, a friend then absent.

Mr. Taylor was the inventor of the McKean drill.

Since time commenced its cycles, or the memory of man
Hath record or tradition of pastoral tribe or clan,
They have never failed to chronicle that men from far and near
Have met to sharp or blunt their wits in liquor, wine or beer.
This ancient custom, reaching back into the hoary past,
Wears a dignity and prestige that rivals even caste;
And bold are they who dare to meet in social gathering free,
And call not to the festal board one of the classic three.
But here’s a jolly company, from far across the sea,
Dares tune its mirth and sharp its wit in a cup of good Bohea.
We’re here from many hundred miles, where the western ocean foams,
But, though a paradox it seems, we have not left our Holmes.
The social homes of England draw us to her like a band,
For we are but the children of this true old glorious land.
Of the “merry homes” of England our great-grandsires used to tell,
But with pride and joy we prove it here, that we’ve Merry Holmes as well.
Disclaiming all comparison, we write ours brave and free
And kindly and hospitable as any Holmes can be.
But we have very English grown, so soon we habits take on,
We cannot even sip our tea, but we must have our Bacon.
But English or American, it matters not a straw,
For both hang out before the world without a taint or flaw.
Go search through British literature, down to her Common Laws,
And find what strength and nourishment it from its Bacon draws;
And if you doubt America can follow in the van,
Go test our “Cincinnati sides,” and “West Virginia ham.”
So perfect in itself is each, it’s patent to my mind
The choicest Bacons that can be, are just the two combined.
By the watery distance we have come one might judge us merely sailors,
But we’re nae thoughtless nor improvident, for we’ve even bro’t our Taylors.
One doesn’t know how long ago, the unjust trick began
To stigmatize a tailor as the ninth part of a man;
But though as old and honored as the Judge’s wig and gown,
Before the faithless falsehood I throw my gauntlet down:
Yes, tho’ it was with Adam for the modest blush that came
When he sewed his scanty fig leaves, and dropped his head for shame;
Tho’ old as this—and thick, and black, and firm as granite, too,
We’ll drill it to a honeycomb, and let the daylight through.
So lay upon our Taylor here your nicest chalk-line true,
And measure him, in soul and vim, as he would measure you;
You’ll find, Sir Scandal, when you’ve done the best you ever can,
In reach of thought, and breadth, and depth, he’s every inch a man.
What did I say? I’m wrong—crave grace—to err is ever human—
Ah, with what pride of sex I claim, his better half a woman—
Tho’ fair Fidele and tender she walketh by his side,
He can neither make nor mend her, but hold fast in his pride;
And though no mortal’s meeker, we find from far and wide
The best and wisest seek her, for a pattern and a guide.
And does the critic here step in, and call us frozen-hearted,
And lacking in paternal love, that we so long are parted
From clinging dear ones left to pine like caged and crying starlings?
Hold, sir! Here’s ointment for your wrath, for we have bro’t our Darlings.
We hold them very near us, with tender love and true;
Their happiness and welfare are never from our view;
And though we’re willing sometimes that they abroad should roam,
We would not spare our darlings forever from our home.
There’s one, methinks, whose eloquence erst charmed this happy band,
Who stays away through many a day in a sunny foreign land—
Who lingered where the soft moonlight plays through the Colosseum,
And troops of idle beggars wait for strangers’ hands to fee ’em.
Or where the setting sun goes down on Monte Rosa’s crest,
And hoary Blanc bids grand good-night to the cloudlets in the west,
And who strays even now, ’mong the vines and the trees,
And walks the green slopes of the dark Pyrenees.
Given us to be jurors and judge of this action,
We’d reduce this delay to a very small fraction;
But being quite powerless our cause to defend,
We must learn to endure what we cannot amend.
As the best of a bad case, let’s forgive her, shall we,
And drink to her health in a cup of Bohea?
And now for our bumpers but one greeting waits
While we roll back our thoughts to the United States,
For United as one they must ever remain,
Since the blood of a million hath rusted the chain.
With a link in each hand died the true and the brave,
And sunk side by side in the low martyr’s grave.
Their bones rest in peace ’neath the soil of their love,
While their souls keep calm watch on the ramparts above.
We would hide nae her faults, this dear land of our pride;
We know she has errors on many a side;
She’s restless, impatient, hurries on through her day,
And treads on old customs that lie in her way.
She’s bold in her speech, but there’s nae lack of truth,
And her faults, let us hope, are the failings of youth.
Yes, she’s young—oh, so young—and her robes are so bright,
For she’s made herself gay with the stars of the night,
And thrown o’er her shoulders a mantle of light
That the oppressed of all nations keep ever in sight.
Oh! each grasp the tissue that floats on the wind,
For hid in its folds lie the hopes of mankind!
Oh! guard Thou her ways, Great Eternal Lord God;
Let her meekly but safely pass under thy rod!
With her faults and her virtues we trust her to Thee
And drink to her life in our cups of Bohea.

Clara Barton

CHAPTER IV
RETURNING HOME

It would be pleasant to record that the benefits derived from this happy outing on the Isle of Wight proved permanent, but unfortunately that was not the case. Had Clara returned to America in the autumn, it might have been better, but she went back to London for the winter determined to brave its fogs. She had discovered, with many of her countrymen, that it is a mistake to expect relief from cold weather by going to a warm climate. The people who live in warm climates do not know how to prepare for the cold. In London they knew at least the value of a fire. To London she went, and the results were depressing. Her throat and chest were affected badly by the London fogs. All the gains of previous months seemed to have been lost, and she was as far from well as she was at the end of the Franco-Prussian War. At this time she wrote to Mrs. Vassall, who had returned from Washington and was living in Worcester:

London, July 11, 1873
Euston Road

Dearest Fannie: