ROBERT RICHARDSON'S college teaching days were over. As the decade turned into the 1870's, he was back in his initial role, having again resumed his post on the Board of Trustees in July, 1869.¹ During the next six years he never missed a meeting of this body. Helping plan curriculum, moving to create the degrees of Bachelor of Science and Master of Science, serving on the Executive Committee, signing diplomas, securing faculty members, sitting through long discussions on tangled finances, he worked with James A. Garfield and other trustees in steering the college through the postwar storm. In the September meeting, 1870, plans were made for the completion of Commencement Hall, originally planned to be the left wing of the college structure. This new building was dedicated on June 13, 1872, making Bethany's collegiate Gothic crown complete. Richardson shared in the ceremonies.²

      With some apprehension he watched the college deficit climb, within five years, from $6,500 to $17,000. These deficits were paid out of the endowment. He saw the endowment melt away to pay salaries and meet building costs until it promised to disappear altogether by the end of the decade. Strong members of the faculty were resigning, and President Pendleton himself was thinking of taking a state political office.³ The future of his beloved Bethany was precarious and becoming more so. [225]

      Willie, the baby of the family, had now grown to manhood and had entered the college in his father's sixty-sixth year. When he graduated in 1876, it was to enter the legal profession. Of the other sons, Nathaniel also had been a lawyer, rising to distinction in Wheeling. He had even served a term in the Virginia state legislature. Tragically he had perished in the flames of a Wellsburg hotel fire on March 14, 1873, the second and last bereavement Robert Richardson was to suffer from among his ten children.⁴ Edgar was serving out his apprenticeship as a pharmacist in Pittsburgh, and John was preparing to take over the farm. Of the girls, Anne and Mary were married, but Fannie, Julia, and Emma were still at home. Of these, only Julia was to remain unmarried. Even so, the others stayed close under the family rooftree and did not marry until after his death. It was a close-knit family, dwelling in a rambling old house that had seen much living.

      Now came the grandchildren to visit and enliven the old house with their laughter. Grandfather Richardson, presiding over the dinner table with his grace before and after meals and his strict control of the conversation, seemed to them austere and almost frightening. How could they know that their presence delighted him so much that he could not utter his joy?

      In the music room the grown children and their guests gathered around the piano as of old to sing and to play their favorite numbers. At the family-worship circle, Father Richardson led them, as he had done for years, in the singing of his best loved hymns: "God moves in a mysterious way," "From all that dwell below the skies," [226] and "Jesus, and shall it ever be." The paintings on the wall, painted by Robert himself and by Mary and Julia, carried Richardson's mind back to his boyhood days under his gentle, artistic mother at 58 Fourth Street.

      Sometimes the mood of reminiscence came upon this happy family as they remembered, amid laughter, some of the incidents which brightened their childhood. There had been that time when Father felt that Julia's delicate condition would improve with a sea voyage. So he had taken her to New York and boarded ship for Portland, Maine, engaging a nurse to look after Julia when she should become seasick. When they were at sea, both the nurse and Dr. Richardson had become miserably seasick, but Julia remained calmly unaffected! Her father said that she was the most perverse young lady he ever knew.

      Or they recalled the times Father had undertaken to cure drunkards, bringing them under the family roof and nursing them for months. Once, for as long as four years, he took in and cared for an old man who had sunk to the lowest depths through drink. This alcoholic ate at the family table with them and sat as one of the family at the fireside. As long as he was within that charmed circle, he was safe from his demon; but once he was outside, it pounced upon him. Again and again he returned to his haven, and every time he was taken in under the sheltering roof without reproach.

      They remembered with what confidence they had endured every childhood sickness, perfectly sure that their father, whom they thought the wisest physician in the world, could make them well again. [227]

      The time they had eaten Thanksgiving dinner at the home of Professor Ross came to mind. That short little professor had stood up to carve the turkey, and someone had pulled back his chair to give him room. With the carving completed, and with a hand on the fork which was anchored firmly in the turkey, the little professor had sat down to find the chair wasn't there. The turkey was flipped into the air, and soon joined the professor and his dignity on the floor!

      Demands upon Richardson in these years increased rather than diminished. In 1872 he gathered together some of his previous essays to use as the content of a book bearing the title, The Office of the Holy Spirit. Nearly every Disciple magazine asked for his articles. Personal correspondence poured in upon him. Emma, schooled by years as his private secretary, read to him and wrote for him. Often, after she had read a letter, and her father had indicated the general natUre of his answer, she composed the reply; except for a word here or there, he approved and signed it unchanged.

      He worked and wrote to support the cause of cooperation and enlightenment in the brotherhood. On February 3, 1873, he wrote an extremely long letter of some 3,000 words to a Mr. Magarey in Australia, one paragraph of which was as follows:

      I entirely agree with you as to the narrowness of our English brethren on the communion question & in regard to missionary work. The cause can never prosper in Great Britain until they outgrow their errors in these subjects. The brethren here have [228] not recovered from the wrong views they formerly entertained respecting missions, and it is with the greatest difficulty they can be induced to contribute.

      He favored printed lesson helps for Sunday school, use of instrumental music in churches, and missionary societies. He even contemplated a published book of family prayers. In the letter from which the preceding paragraph is quoted, he said:

      The important subject of family prayer . . . is one which has been often before me, and often discussed with Bro. A. Campbell, his revered father, W. Scott & others in years that are past to return no more. The aid of a book of devotion with forms of prayer etc., was then and has been since occasionally suggested. A few weeks ago, Bro. J. S. Lamar had an article in the Christian Standard strongly recommending such a work. His proposition, however has not been well received. I do not myself see any absolute impropriety in the use of such a Formula . . . There is no doubt that the regular extemporaneous family prayers & thanksgivings at table constantly tend to assume a fixed form of expression among all religious people, and, for that matter, might as well be printed and read, as constantly repeated from memory. I have no doubt that suitable forms of devotion would greatly aid timid persons, and might induce them to bring their families together for the worship of God. There would certainly be no impropriety in preparing such a Manual.⁵

      When he addressed the American Christian Missionary Society in 1870, he deplored "that sort of church independency which leads a dozen or two to assemble and style themselves 'the Church of Christ,' and, while doing nothing beyond self-edification, glory in the thought that they are 'the pillar and support of the truth.'" "What [229] truth do they support?" he asked. "The world does not even know of their existence, and they live and die without one earnest forth-putting of missionary enterprise to make the world better."⁶

      He spent many moments of these years worrying over debt. Robert Richardson's publishing ventures never brought him any financial profit. His debt from them was cleared years later only after his daughter Fannie took matters in hand and, having sold the books in stock and having gathered funds from her brothers and sisters, finally discharged the obligation. To quote again from Richardson's letter to Magarey:

      In regards to the Messrs. Lippincott. I hardly know what to make of them. They are certainly shamefully remiss as to their correspondence, and business obligations. I wrote to them that you had forwarded a draft . . . Two years ago they sent me a brief abstract of ac. making it appear that I was indebted to them upwards of $1500. I wrote to them stating that this was much more than I expected, and that I desired to have the account in detail so that I could understand the matter. In the meantime I sent them $1,000.--but from that day to this, I have been unable to get from them a copy of my account on their books, or any account at all of sales of books . . . I am sorry now that I ever undertook the publication of the book [Memoirs of Alexander Campbell] myself, as it has proved to be a troublesome & losing business.

      From the beginning of 1872, Richardson began to suffer from violent paroxysms about the heart. As a physician he was able quickly to diagnose his own condition. It was angina pectoris. Though he tried digitalis and other remedies, he knew that he carried his death [230] sentence within him. If he walked twenty-five or thirty yards, the peculiar distress began, increasing in intensity with every step, until he was compelled to stop and remain quiet for several minutes. While he remained quietly in his study or rode gently on horseback, he suffered little. But he was always conscious of a feeling that the disease was ever present and, like a tiger in a jungle, ready at any time to spring.

      Robert's brother Edward, also a physician, had been in the habit of paying an annual visit to Bethphage. He had a successful practice in Louisville, Kentucky. These two brothers, the eldest and youngest of a family of eleven, were singularly fond of each other. Dr. Edward felt that he owed much to Dr. Robert, and he looked upon him almost as a father. They were very congenial, and the two of them greatly enjoyed these annual visits. In earlier years, they took long walks over the farm and spent the days in expansive conversation. After the heart attacks, Edward continued to come, and, except that the walks were now shorter, they walked and talked as usual; but the physician's eye of the younger brother could read the future, and a cloud somewhat shadowed the formerly sunny hours of his visit.

      Among the topics on which the brothers dwelt this year was the advances which had been made in their own science. Antisepsis and anesthesia had come. Blistering and bleeding had gone. The "heroic" medicine of violent drugs had been discontinued, and with it the dogmatism of the schools. Medicine had become teachable. It was going to school to the facts, and it was coming of age. [231]

      Robert Richardson was too competent a physician himself not to know that his days were numbered. One day in 1875 he took John aside, told him of his approaching attack, and outlined the farm work for a year in advance. Together they planned the care of the stock, the fruit, and the crops for the next twelve months.⁷

      Then in February of 1876 it came. Having spent the morning of February 18 in his study, he came down to dinner in an unusually happy mood. He ate heartily, keeping up a lively conversation. John, Emma, and his wife, Rebekah, were the only ones at home. When dinner was over, he left the room and went out into the yard for a short stroll. A few moments later, John followed, only to find him prostrate and unconscious on the ground.

      John gathered him up into his arms and carried him into the house and laid him on the bed. Then he rode off to Bethany as fast as he could to bring Dr. Whittsett. Dr. Hukill, of West Liberty, was also called. After a brief time Richardson regained consciousness, and in the course of a week he was in his accustomed place in the family circle, but he had lost the power of speech, and the physicians offered no hope of recovery.

      His speechlessness was not a paralysis of the vocal organs but of the nerve centers controlling the formation of words and sentences. Neither was he able to write. Several times he sat down at his desk and tried to write, but he was unable to do so. In a strange series of scratches he once tried to copy the fourteenth chapter of John, but after working painfully for a long time and making poor [232] progress, he laid the pen aside and sadly pushed the paper from him.

      His mind remained clear, however. His eyes were no weaker than formerly, and he was able to read some of his heavy mail and the newspapers. Emma still did most of his reading for him. Sometimes he came to her with a letter to which he wished her to reply, but instead of writing at his dictation, she wrote what she thought he would wish to say, and then read it aloud for his approval. By nodding and shaking his head, he was able to make her understand his corrections, and she wrote and revised until she had the letter as he wished it.

      Months passed. He seemed calm and untroubled. He sat long hours in his accustomed chair at the fireside, with a look of perfect rest and peace on his face. He took short walks about the farm and showed an interest in all that was going on. Often he went with John to inspect and approve of what was being done.

      In September, his brother Edward came for his annual visit. They walked as usual and sat together, but one voice that had always joined in the animated conversation was mute. It was a sad visit for Edward, but on his brother's brow there was no cloud. Instead, there was peace and love and a calm, expectant serenity. He never seemed happier.

      Attended faithfully by his two physicians, he refused once to take the medicine prescribed by one of them. He also refused for several meals to eat or drink, until Rebekah discovered that he had the idea that she was putting this medicine into his food and drink. Later, a [233] specialist gave the opinion that this particular medicine would have been fatal. Only once did he prescribe for himself. Then he tried to tell the attending doctor the name of the medicine he wanted. Finally, he tried to write it and, after much effort, at length succeeded in making the word legible. When the other physician saw the recommended treatment, he admitted it to be better than the one he had himself prescribed.

      One day Willie was sent off to Bethany on an errand. As was the custom at Bethphage, he rode a horse. He had been gone only a little while when it was noticed by other members of the family that Dr. Richardson was much disturbed. After asking him numerous questions, to which he could nod or shake his head in a process of elimination, Emma finally learned that he was disturbed by something about Willie. After questioning him further, she understood him to want to know whether or not Willie had put the blanket under the saddle when he started for the village. When Emma assured him that Willie had done so, he had no further uneasiness.

      Former students and associates often called on him in these months of silence. He was avid for their stories of what was happening in the college and in the brotherhood. With nods and signs he encouraged them to talk and by the benediction of his own peace he smoothed away their awkwardness and embarrassment.

      The year 1876 came around to October, and the leaves on the hills became a fairyland of color. Robert Richardson had been imprisoned in silence for eight months. Sunday, October 22, dawned fair and with the warmth [234] of Indian summer. In the forenoon some of the family drove to the Bethany church. About three o'clock in the afternoon, Richardson started for a walk over the farm, accompanied by Emma. He seemed unusually quiet and meditative as he walked slowly, and with head slightly bowed, up to the top of the hill overlooking Bethany.

      He had always loved that view, and he stood for a long time looking at it. He saw the valley of the Buffalo, from below "the narrows" to beyond the Campbell home. In one arm of the creek's winding "S" nestled the village of Bethany, and in the other the mansion, study, and cemetery of the Campbells. On the hill above the village stood the college buildings, in new Gothic splendor. Just below him lay the patchwork quilt of cultivated fields in the bottom-land of "Logan's Hollow." He surveyed it all, with welling memories and thoughts locked up in a prison of silence. He looked over to the place where Alexander Campbell slept and where he, too, would rest and then turned slowly away.

      Now, his gaze fell upon the amphitheatre of Bethphage, clothed in her autumn colors. These, to him, were acres of Paradise. The rambling house, grown with the family to nineteen rooms, nestled securely on the stage amid its gardens with shrubs, vines, and trees. Around it there fanned out the fields, divided by osage orange hedges. Here were his orchards, his gardens, his fields; and there his home and hearth. He looked long and lovingly upon this scene--Bethphage, "nigh unto Bethany."

      Slowly he and Emma walked down the hill and through the orchard to the house. He sat alone on the [235] porch. Shortly a violent storm with lightning and thunder came up. It lasted for about half an hour. Afterward there was calm. At dark, as was his custom since the beginning of his illness, Richardson passed through the living room on his way to bed. To Rebekah and Emma, who were sitting there, he motioned good night, but as he neared Rebekah's chair he stopped and passed both hands over her hair affectionately, murmured an inarticulate "good night" and went on into his bedroom. A few minutes afterward, Emma heard the sound of labored breathing. When she reached him, his heart was still!

[HTB 225-236]