THE YEAR 1857 Robert Richardson spent under bombardment. "The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune" were aimed at him from many directions. A part of these adversities were "acts of God," but most of them were, in their origin, "human, all too human."

      In the college, at the beginning of the year, florid dreams of the future were mushrooming. With student enrollment higher than ever and public favor mounting, the faculty and administration were beginning to see visions of an ambitious program of expansion. Within the United States there were now 122 colleges with a total of some twelve thousand students. In addition, there were forty medical schools, forty-four theological seminaries, and sixteen law schools.¹ Although the nation was riding headlong toward civil conflict, it was always possible to believe that war could not come, to plan as though it would not.

      J. P. Robison and Isaac Errett, trustees of Bethany College, were pushing the creation of a distinct "theological department" and to that end were seeking the repeal of the section of the charter prohibiting theological instruction. They entertained hopes that this department would become a separate school with its own buildings. In this they were blocked by the state legislature, but expectations in other areas of the college continued undaunted.² [168]

      In March, 1857, Associate Editor Richardson began a series of articles on "Faith versus Philosophy," which ran throughout the year.³ The series was based on the text, "Beware, lest any man spoil you, through philosophy and vain deceit, after the tradition of men, after the rudiments of the world, and not after Christ" (Col. 2:6). Before they were finished, these articles were to involve him in spirited controversy with President Tolbert Fanning of Franklin College in Tennessee. This controversy, in turn, was to provoke attacks and misrepresentations which would come to the ears of Alexander Campbell and drive a wedge of misunderstanding between him and Richardson.⁴

      Richardson undertook the series from no contentious motives, but, rather, from the conviction that a large and dangerous minority within the reformation were being led by men of little minds and imagination to substitute a theory of faith for faith itself. It was a gallant stand against the intolerant, bibliocentric literalism from which Campbell was trying to save Protestantism. It was a courageous effort to advance the cause of a spirituality that was centered in devotional loyalty to Christ.

      Although the membership of the Disciples was now approaching a quarter of a million and was supposed by its adherents to be twice that large, Editor Richardson asserted that it had as yet by no means accomplished its design "to restore pure, primitive, apostolic Christianity, in letter and spirit, in principle and in practice." Some, he said, numbering himself with them, "are apprehensive that there has been an exchange of opinions, rather than a change of condition; a readiness to propagate and [169] defend a theory, instead of a willingness to make progress toward that perfection which the gospel enjoins."

      Clearly there was something wrong somewhere in the reformation. Where could the trouble lie? There were three possibilities: it might be (1) in the basic principles of the movement, or (2) in the practical program for implementing the principles, or (3) "it is possible that some system of human philosophy has insidiously intruded itself, and, like the serpent in Eden, seduced the unwary, by the charms of forbidden knowledge." Examining, in turn, the first and second possibilities, he concluded that they must be rejected.

      Certainly, Richardson said, the Disciples have no lack of proselyting power. In fact, an inordinate zeal for getting members has became too often a "heartless and superficial formalism." A wiser view of evangelism would hold that Christianity is designed, not merely to bring together a multitude of adherents, but to save the world. "Its design is to make converts and not proselytes." Feverish efforts to herd large numbers into the churches, with no apparent thought for the future, is both shortsighted and self-defeating. "It is not the planting that can be made a substitute for the fruitage; nor the sowing for the harvest."

      With regard to church organization, Richardson wanted it clearly understood that he did not "undervalue the importance of a scriptural order." On the other hand, "It is not organization that can impart life." Reliance on "mere forms and names or titles" that had been emptied of their original New Testament content had made [170] of many a church officer "a sort of spiritual undertaker, [rather] than . . . a physician of souls."

      The cause of the malady in the brotherhood was, in short, neither lack of evangelistic zeal nor want of concern over organization. It was the introduction of privately held philosophies as public tests of faith. Having professed to abandon "speculations," many Disciples had only supposed themselves to have done so. In reality they were entertaining philosophical assumptions unawares, and these assumptions were adulterating or displacing the faith. Because of such assumptions, "the efforts of some of the most able advocates of the cause have been misunderstood and perverted."

      Tolbert Fanning, president of Franklin College and editor of the Gospel Advocate, had previously criticized Richardson, so the doctor now returned the compliment by observing that Fanning was himself an ideal illustration of what he was talking about. Though denouncing all philosophy as leading to infidelity, Fanning was himself a dogmatic follower of John Locke. There is nothing wrong with this, said Richardson, until one lifts such dogmas out of the realm of private opinion and seeks to impose them upon others as Christianity itself.

      Exactly what is it that Fanning believes and is confusing with Christianity itself?

      According to this philosophy of man, he can receive no impressions except those from material things around him, so far as either his mental or bodily constitution is concerned, and he is consequently by nature a materialist, utterly incapable of deriving either from the external world or from his own soul, any conceptions of spirit or spiritual things. For these he is wholly [171] dependent upon revelation, that is, upon words, divine communications addressed to the bodily senses, which are, in this system, regarded as the only avenues to the soul.

      To substitute such a "dirt philosophy" for a warmly personal Christian experience was a tragedy. It tends to "unfit men's minds to receive anything that is not merely outward and formal" and "gradually dries up the fountains of spiritual sympathy."

      According to this philosophy, the operation of the Spirit is limited to the word alone, a view which issues in "a blind, unreasoning partiality, which, in reality, degrades the Bible, by placing it in a false position, and ascribing to it exclusive power and attributes which it never claims for itself."

      Locke is right, agreed Richardson, in placing "facts first, then testimony, then faith, then feeling, then action." But when facts and testimony are exaggerated all out of proportion to the rest of the series and faith is reduced to a mere "belief of the historic facts presented in the gospel," this is a sad defection, for "true Christian faith reaches beyond the recorded facts to the PERSON concerning whom the facts are related. It is CHRIST himself, and not any, nor all of the facts in his history, that is the true and proper object of this faith."

      In a reply characterized by fallacious reasoning, Fanning floundered to a number of erroneous conclusions. Since Richardson had attacked the "word alone" theory of conversion, Fanning supposed that he flew to the opposite of "spiritualism." Although holding unconsciously to the Lockian philosophy as being the true interpretation of the universe and man and thus the only valid [172] approach to an understanding of Christianity, Fanning bitterly denounced the teaching of natural theology in colleges as rank "infidelity." When he learned that Alexander Campbell himself had for years taught exactly such a course, he declared that if such were the case, Campbell had abandoned his earlier position. "We cannot, and will not believe it." It was not far from this to a denunciation of the professors of Bethany College for teaching infidelity.

      For his part, Richardson was as much opposed to unrestricted mysticism or "spiritualism" as he was to the "dirt philosophy" of Locke. The whole point of his series was that no philosophy should be substituted for Christian faith; no intellectual system should be allowed to take the place of an inner quality of life. "A profession of Christianity which does not produce a marked change in life, a transformation by the renewing of the mind, and an entire consecration to God; . . . which, on the contrary, leaves those who make it, conformed to the world in its fashions and its follies, occupied with worldly speculations and selfish interests, full of arrogance and ambition--is manifestly far from being a genuine profession of the gospel."

      Referring to Fanning only to "exhibit him as a full-bodied specimen" of a Lockian dogmatist, as he explained in a letter to Philip S. Fall, Richardson did not plan to engage in a discussion with him. But Campbell thought it necessary to publish Farming's reply, "lest he should have ground to complain of unfairness." The reply was given space in the Harbinger. It inflamed the controversy and spread it widely over the brotherhood. [173]

      What disturbed Richardson even more than this, however, was, as he told Mr. Fall, that "Brother C. greatly disapproved of my article and even told me that if a portion had not been printed before he saw it he would not have suffered it to go into the Harbinger." How could he account for such an attitude, in view of the fact that the position taken in the "Faith versus Philosophy" series was exactly that which Campbell had himself set forth so admirably in The Christian System in 1836! He could assign only one cause, a cause for which he had other evidence as well: "Some one, I think, has been poisoning his mind latterly with the suspicion that my articles were really directed against his teaching. Yet I do not know how I could have used greater care or delicacy in avoiding even a seeming conflict."

      Campbell's rebuke did not, however, reduce Richardson's esteem for him:

      Of course, I shall pay no regard to this little ebullition of jealous feeling. Brother C. is getting old. He has been a faithful laborer and perseveres still even when his work is done--may peace ever attend him! Still each one has his own duty to perform, and he ought not to stop others from doing their portion of the work, or put viewpoints into the hands of such a man as Fanning, against his true, friend, and, what is still more unfortunate, against the cause of truth and Christian progress.

      Unfortunately, the debate kindled by the publication of Fanning's reply in the Harbinger caught fire in the sectarian press, and Campbell's archenemies made use of it to castigate him. The Religious Herald of Richmond, Virginia, wanted to know "On Which Side Is A. Campbell?" It even charged that Campbell's sympathies were [174] really with Fanning rather than Richardson and that he was guilty of making Christianity doctrinal rather than personal. The effort was to set Campbell and Richardson against one another.

      For some reason this particular controversy inflamed the imagination of ardent partizans at the two extremes on either side of Richardson, and the discussion spread to Disciple magazines all over the brotherhood. W. S. Russell wrote a series of articles, in the Illinois Christian Sentinel, claiming Richardson as a kindred spirit, as he espoused an extreme "spiritualism." Benjamin Franklin, literalist editor of the American Christian Review, took sides with Fanning and hurled some very rough language in Richardson's direction.

      Although he published nothing in which he singled out Franklin by name, he did write an article repudiating his affinity to Russell's way of thinking. "I thought it necessary for me to censure Bro. Russell," he wrote to Philip S. Fall, "as my name had become unwarrantably associated with his speculations. I have endeavored to do it mildly, however, for he is a young man of piety and ability and I wish we could save him to the cause."

      At this point, Campbell decided to curb his associate editor. So for the September issue of the Harbinger, he wrote an article entitled "Christianity the True Philosophy," in which he said, quite pointedly: "We do not approve of Philosophical disquisitions of any sort being presented to our readers in our monthly bills of fare. And as little do we approve of placing faith and philosophy in any real or formal antagonism." He therefore [175] requested that Bacon's Novum Organum and Locke's Essay be laid on the shelf. "At least let them repose for one lunar month."

      Richardson was sorely distressed as he reflected, "I was only enforcing . . . his own excellent and correct teachings in the Christian System." And Fanning did exactly what Richardson feared: he triumphantly reprinted Campbell's article in full.

      Campbell's article also gave encouragement to "those editors who were busy circulating every species of calumny" against him, Richardson continued. Not only so, but Campbell "quietly suffered this to go on for months with only one or two slight and very imperfect corrections." Still, he did not hold any ill will toward his senior editor. "Now, do not understand me, Brother Fall," he wrote to his friend, "as blaming Brother C. for all this or any of it. I know that influences were thrown artfully around him, at the time, by which his jealousy was excited and his judgment perverted, so that no assurances on my part seemed to have any affect upon him."

      Fanning himself, on a trip to the North, stopped at Bethany for the special purpose of seeking to turn Mr. Campbell against Dr. Richardson. (Campbell had not recognized this purpose at the time, but a few years later, writing to P. S. Fall on Jan. 4, 1860, he stated that Fanning had made this call "for the especial purpose of creating hostility" in Campbell's mind toward Richardson.) The outcome was that the senior editor moved to censure his associate editor even more severely than at first: "We are told that our custom is to publish both [176] sides of all our controversies. This is true of all controversies in which I am one party. But this extends not to every contributor to the Harbinger, nor even to associate editors." Although subordinated to a footnote, the reprimand was not inconspicuous!

      Richardson was discredited. He was hurt most by the fact that the true Disciple position, as he understood it, had been publicly denounced, and that by Campbell himself. He refused, however, to enter into controversy with the aged leader of the reformation. There was, therefore, but one thing for him to do: resign from the Harbinger. This he did, announcing his withdrawal in the December number.

      There were many who felt that a grave injustice had been done. One of these, J. A. Butler, wrote to Editor Bates of the Evangelist, published at Fort Madison, Iowa, that the news of Richardson's resignation from the Millennial Harbinger "will murk the spirits of multiplied thousands." Declaring that Robert Richardson was among the noblest and ablest early Reformers, he went on to say that a purer man did not live, "one who would adorn the most refined society on earth, . . . one whose luminous light has lamped the feet of thousands of Zion's children." A grave loss had been sustained by his resignation. "We sorrow much that that man of God has said to the readers of the Harbinger, Fare-thee-well!" Why, he wanted to know, should "this meek, humble, refined and pious man" lay down his pen in an hour of such great needy As he saw the matter, to have Richardson's name stricken from the list of religious writers "would be like the going down of the sun on a wintry day!" [177] Declaring that the situation created "a crisis with the Reformation," Butler appealed to Richardson not to withdraw "in the hottest of the fight," after battling so courageously through twenty-eight years in the ranks of the reformation.

      It was a sobering experience for Richardson. "The faithful discharge of what I felt to be a duty," he wrote in answer to Butler's open letter, "has brought upon me the most bitter and unrelenting hostility in the form of misquotation, misrepresentation, and personal and professional detraction." He went on to make, for him, an unusually gloomy observation: "Such is the unsettled condition of men's minds, that, it seems to me, scarcely any truth can be presented without being immediately laid hold of by some extremist, and carried away to a false and improper issue." Nevertheless, this bitter experience did not move him from his ground: "I have never, for one moment, thought of withdrawing any aid that I could render to the great and blessed cause in which we are engaged."

      To Philip Fall, the tired doctor confided: "But disappointments seem to have clustered around me of late, and I have been a good deal discouraged in regard to the College, and I would feel so in relation to the future of the reformation itself, did I not know that the Lord reigns and that he will not suffer his truth to fail."

      When, in addition to the trouble in the Harbinger, and concurrently with it, persecution of Richardson arose in the college as well, the doctor found himself beset behind and before. [178]

      Following the clue given by the University of Virginia, some of the trustees of Bethany College felt that the ideal pattern of a college or university made provision for the president and professors to live upon the college campus. They hoped in the not too distant future to build adequate faculty housing to realize this ideal; but meantime, an approximation of it could be reached by requiring all faculty members at least to live in the village of Bethany. Professor Richardson, with his home at the top of a high hill, across the Buffalo, lived two miles away.

      On many occasions during the past two years, both Pendleton and Campbell had urged the doctor to move his family to Bethany so he could be nearer the college. He had been willing enough to do this. The long hours on horseback and the toll charges on the turnpike were both strong inducements. But he could not find a house. As he wrote to Reuben Coleman, an old friend and a reliable trustee: "All my efforts were fruitless. Bro. Campbell & Bro. Pendleton own all the land round Bethany. Neither will sell an acre or two where a pleasant residence could be built. No ground is to be purchased except some refuse lots in the village of Bethany which Bro. Campbell has still on hand and for which he demands a high price." Having just climbed out of debt, he was not inclined to go back in again anyway. When he looked about for a house to rent, he could find nothing that would even begin to accommodate his large family.

      Both Pendleton and Campbell knew all this. He was, therefore, taken by surprise and completely off his guard [179] when on July 3, 1857, upon entering Steward's Inn on the day of the meeting of the Board of Trustees, he was encountered by Dr. J. P. Robison, a comparatively new trustee, who hailed him boisterously, in the presence of a large crowd of students and strangers.

      "The Board is going to make you come to Bethany," he said. "We have passed a resolution to that effect. You will have to come. Some of the trustees," he went on recklessly, "say you won't stand for it, but I know you will say that it's all right."

      Professor Richardson was almost too startled to reply, but he did manage to say, "Certainly, Doctor, the Board have a right to pass what resolutions they think proper and I think it very proper that they should make all the Faculty come and live on the College premises and furnish them with suitable dwellings." Richardson then expressed a desire to see the resolution and having been given a copy, Dr. Robison joined the other trustees, who were just then gathering, and they passed on into the meeting room, leaving the professor alone.

      "Under the circumstances," Richardson continued, in his letter to Trustee Coleman, "I confess, I felt myself not only very much surprised but very much annoyed." When he looked at the resolution, this is what he read:

      On motion of Dr. Robison, Resolved that the Professors of the College be and they are hereby required to reside in Bethany or its immediate vicinity, and that the new residence of Professor Richardson is out of the vicinity of Bethany as intended by this resolution . . . Dr. Richardson is requested to comply with this resolution as soon as practicable. [180]

      Richardson was stunned. "I confess that upon reading these resolutions a very unpleasant train of reflections and conjectures arose in my mind," he wrote. "Their terms were imperative. There had not been shown the slightest recognition of those official courtesies which are usually observed in such cases."

      There was not a single kindly word acknowledging his past sacrificial services to the institution. "I hive met my classes regularly, attending carefully the meeting of the Faculty and faithfully attended to my full share, to say the least, of all the business of the College." He confided: "For sixteen years I have not been detained two days by sickness, and I have not been absent a single week from College, except once when my father lay on his dying bed, at which time I was absent about a week. When others were absent, I have attended to their classes for them in addition to my own without any extra compensation. During a large portion of the time, I met Mr. Campbell's morning class for weeks every morning at 8 o'clock, even in the depths of winter, during his long absences from home." His relations with both faculty and students had been entirely friendly and harmonious.

      What could be in the mind of the trustees? Did someone want his job? Was someone determined to ride roughshod over realities to get his preconceived notion of an ideal housing pattern? If the trustees were motivated by a desire to have the professors with the students as much as possible, he could certainly qualify on that point.

      "I have never on any occasion suffered the distance of my residence to interfere in the slightest degree with my College duties. Indeed it has caused me to spend more [181] time at the College than I would otherwise have done, as when my duties required me to be there early in the morning & also in the evening I have generally remained during the entire day rather than be at the trouble of returning home and coming down again." Moreover, his medical practice took him often into student rooms. "As I am called on often for medical visits and advice, I am often in the rooms of the students both in the Inn and the village--oftener, indeed, far more than any other member of the Faculty." As for entertaining students in his own home, he could qualify on that count, too! "The distance of my residence too, so far from being an obstacle to social intercourse, is on the contrary conducive to it. It is but a pleasant walk for the students to my house. They come out for recreation in parties almost every day. They spend more time in social intercourse with me and my family than they would if I lived in the village."

      If the resolution was intended as a means to better discipline of the students, the trustees were harboring an erroneous idea as to its effectiveness.

      It is not the location of a man's house that will give him a knowledge of what is going on, but eyes to see and ears to hear. . . . I have constantly from the beginning brought to the notice of the Faculty more cares of discipline than any other member, and . . . I have often been enabled to lay before the Faculty the facts and occurrences in the College and the village with which those living in the immediate vicinity of the college were wholly ignorant.

      Why had he been singled out by name in this resolution? The president himself lived three-quarters of a mile away from the college! "Why single me out as if [182] I were the only one so placed? . . . What am I to think of this proceeding? Is it a thoughtless exercise of power? Is it a scheme to put me from my position? Or is it a mere whim or favorite motion which some wish to carry out irrespective of consequences?" Thoughts similar to the foregoing ones extracted from Richardson's letter to Reuben Coleman must have raced through his mind during those tense moments following his encounter with Dr. Robison.

      Meantime, student talk was buzzing, and with the talk their resentment was gathering momentum. When Dr. Richardson appeared, they thronged around him. They were especially angry at Dr. Robison. They planned, they said, to hold an indignation meeting. He urged them not to do anything, and they were quieted after a while by the pleadings of some of their number who asked respect for the doctor's wishes.

      Professor Richardson went on to his room to write a reply to the board that very same day, sending it into the meeting by Alexander Campbell, Jr., who read it:

JULY 3, 1857

TO THE BOARD OF TRUSTEES OF BETHANY COLLEGE,

      The Board of Trustees having . . . requested the undersigned to conform to this arrangement at as early a period as practicable, the undersigned feels himself in duty bound to state that he is unconscious of having failed in any respect whatever in the discharge of his official duties in consequence of the distance of his family residence from the college. It imposes upon him, indeed, much additional toil and expense, as he is obliged to travel in consequence during the session at least 1200 miles which at the rate of 30 miles per day occupies 40 days of time unprofitably expended, but he has never failed to encounter cold and storm and bad roads, to meet his classes punctually, to attend all [183] meetings of the Faculty, and in all respects to promote to the extent of his ability the interests of the Institution, and if it is the judgment of the Board that the distance of his residence from the College has, in any respect, interfered with the faithful discharge of his duties, he begs leave to say that it has been entirely misinformed upon the subject.

      He would further state that the question of his removal to Bethany Village has been frequently presented to him, and that . . . it has very naturally received full and mature consideration. Candor obliges him to say, . . . that the circumstances of his family will not permit him to remove to the village of Bethany or the immediate vicinity of the College.

      Under these circumstances, but one course remains to the undersigned . . .

      He, therefore, most respectfully tenders to the Board his immediate resignation of the chair which he has heretofore occupied in the institution.

R. RICHARDSON

      His action took the board so much by surprise that they found themselves passing a new resolution, to constitute "the President, Faculty, J. C. Campbell, C. Tarr, A. F. Ross, and J. H. Pendleton a committee to fill the vacancy by reappointing Dr. Richardson." It was a sobered committee that waited upon the professor shortly afterward. Explanations were given, apologies were made. The doctor was begged to remain. But the command that he move into Bethany was not altered.

      The ruffled doctor was not much inclined to reconsider. James Fall, the son of Philip S. Fall of Kentucky, came to him privately, however, and succeeded where the official committee had failed. Fall urged him to consider the state of mind that Campbell was in at the time and to reflect upon the injury which the college and the reformation [184] cause would suffer as a result of his leaving. Richardson could not bear even to think of that, and rather than incur the possibility he determined to make any sacrifice of his own feelings and interests. He decided to reaccept the appointment.

      Even then, an effort was made "by tale bearing and other means, to excite Brother Campbell to personal hostility" against Richardson and prevent him from agreeing to his reappointment. Richardson undertook to convince Campbell that there were no grounds for the stories, a task by no means easy when it is remembered that Campbell was then in the most antagonistic phase of the controversy over the series on "Faith versus Philosophy." To make sure that his case would get a just hearing in some quarters at least, he explained matters to some of the leading trustees. So at length he was re-elected. To return under such circumstances was a great humiliation to him.

      At about this time a Mr. Wendel moved from Bethany to Wheeling, making his property available. Richardson arranged to purchase it (the present Beta House) for $2,500 and undertook the task of crowding his large family into it.

      He had supposed that Campbell would be mollified by his compliance with an old request of his and Pendleton's and with the imperative order of the trustees. He was mistaken. Campbell continued to disparage him in the Harbinger--among other things, accusing him of teaching the "Spirit alone" theory.

      It did not add to his peace of mind when the college engaged Professor J. D. Pickett to teach modern languages [185] without being able to find him a house. Pickett had to leave his family in Kentucky! Meantime, Bethphage was standing empty! Irritated and harassed by editors and trustees, and bedeviled by misunderstandings and misrepresentations, the doctor confronted his duties of the new term in a gray mood, and the year wore on into winter.

      On Friday, December 11, 1857, at about two o'clock in the morning, the main college building was discovered to be on fire. Supposed to have been started by an incendiary, the blaze was so far advanced by this time that nothing could be saved. Furnishings, patiently gathered museum, apparatus, the finest library in Virginia, and the building itself--all perished. Students and faculty members, held at bay by the inferno; stood back in agonizing helplessness. Alexander Campbell rushed over from the mansion, and as he saw a large portion of the labor of his seventy years dissolve into ashes, his slumbering brain leaped fully awake to its accustomed vigor. Even while the fire was still burning, he inspired his teachers and his students to plan to rebuild immediately.⁵

      Classes resumed the very next day, crowding into Steward's Inn. The following Monday, December 14, the trustees met in emergency session and took swift measures to rebuild more nobly than the last. President Campbell and Vice-President Pendleton were authorized to do what they were already planning, to take to the field in an effort to raise $50,000 at once. Campbell, Pendleton, and Richardson were appointed a committee to prepare a financial appeal to the college constituency, [186] asking for immediate aid in re-erecting the college buildings and refurnishing its library and laboratory.⁶

      Trustees Curran, John C. Campbell, and Ross and Professors Pendleton, Richardson, and Pickett were appointed a committee to draw up plans for new college buildings, to prepare estimates and specifications, and to receive bids from contractors.

      President Campbell and Vice-President Pendleton left at once on an extensive tour to raise funds. Then fell upon Richardson the task of ordering scientific equipment to replenish the destroyed laboratories, planning with the building committee, teaching his own, Campbell's, and Pendleton's classes in the crowded Steward's Inn, and the administrative responsibilities of acting president and bursar. As these tasks devolved upon him, added as they were to the busy life he normally lived, and to the almost overbearing weight of misunderstanding and hostility which the Fanning controversy and the faculty housing resolution had provoked, not to mention the gloom occasioned by the physical disaster to the college, Robert Richardson will perhaps be forgiven if he did not respond very cheerfully. [187]

[HTB 168-187]