In 1749, Scots-Irish pioneers in Virginia's Shenandoah Valley founded the Commonwealth's second institution of higher learning, Augusta Academy. (Virginia's oldest college is William & Mary, 1693.) When Virginia and twelve other colonies declared their independence from Great Britain in 1776, the school's patriotic trustees renamed it Liberty Hall. The school relocated twenty miles southward, to the town of Lexington, in 1780, and two years later Liberty Hall Academy was chartered by the Virginia House of Burgesses and authorised to confer degrees.
Two wooden academic buildings having burned down, a stone building to house Liberty Hall was constructed outside of town in 1793. Alas, that too was destroyed by fire ten years later, leaving only the ruins pictured here and prompting the school to move to its current location in Lexington proper. By that time, the school had a new name: following a major financial endowment by then-President George Washington, Liberty Hall was renamed Washington Academy and then, in 1813, Washington College.
General Robert E. Lee was hired as president of Washington College in 1865, after the conclusion of the War for Southern Independence. During Lee's tenure, a business school and law school were added to the original college (still known as "The College"), and upon his death in 1870 the institution became Washington and Lee University. [More on Lee below.]
I became entranced by the Liberty Hall ruins during my time as a student at W&L in the 1980s, and spent a good bit of time out in what was then the remotest part of campus, enjoying the quiet, the fresh Valley air, and the company of eastern bluebirds. So when Jessa and I were planning our most recent trip and she suggested an overnight stop in Lexington, a visit to Liberty Hall was my top priority.
I am tempted to write extensively about my personal history at W&L and how the University has influenced me, and perhaps someday I will, but in the interest of time I will forego that exercise for now. Suffice it to say that I am not the sort of graduate who typically gets featured in the alumni magazine; neither was I particularly distinguished as a scholar during my time at W&L. My Buddha-like approach to life (all things in moderation, especially ambition) manifested early on, and when not haunting the ruins I spent at least as much time at Natural Bridge, at Goshen Pass, and up on the Blue Ridge Parkway as I ever did in the classroom, storing up perfect moments and setting the stage for my future life. Decades before I took up fly-fishing, I was imprinting on trout streams.
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As we drove through the town of Lexington, Jessa and I noted several yard signs and at least one billboard bearing the slogan, "Retain the Name". And W&L's Board of Trustees had, in fact, recently voted to remain Washington and Lee University, though Lee Chapel is apparently now University Chapel. This latter action seems to me unnecessary, though I understand and accept it as a strategic concession to those advocating for a broader change. To explain why, let's look at the origins of that building and the character of its namesake.
General Robert E. Lee is widely, and not incorrectly, seen as an icon of the Old South. He is less often appreciated, unfortunately, as an architect of the New South. After Appomattox, Lee was a genuine celebrity, revered in the South and widely respected in the North as well. His farewell orders to the Army of Northern Virginia encouraged his men to return peaceably to their homes; he wanted to see the nation healed rather than the struggle continued by means of guerilla warfare. ("So far from engaging in a war to perpetuate slavery, I am rejoiced that slavery is abolished. I believe it will be greatly for the interests of the South.") Flooded with lucrative offers to sit on the boards of various commercial enterprises, Lee instead chose a new career in education, accepting the presidency of an obscure college named for his personal hero, George Washington. He wanted to play an active role in the (small-r) reconstruction of the South, and wanted young men of both North and South to get to know one another at Washington College.
One of Lee's first actions upon assuming the presidency was to abolish mandatory chapel for students—immediately after which he commissioned the construction of a chapel. And when a new student approached the former General to ask for a copy of the college's rules, Lee replied, "There is only one rule: You will conduct yourself as a gentleman."
I have no doubt whatsoever that Lee himself would readily assent to the renaming of the chapel for the greater good. But I am proud that the trustees declined to remove Lee's name from the university that he led and transformed. History should be taught, not erased—and it should be taught with a view toward subtlety and nuance. With regard to the current vogue for eliminating Confederate iconography, I reject a one-size-fits-all approach that tars all Confederates with the same brush. My own view is that any and all statues of Nathan Bedford Forrest, for example, if any such still exist, should be removed and destroyed—if marble, reduced to rubble, and if bronze, melted down into spittoons. But if we consider the whole history and character of the man, which I think we should, we could possibly do with more statues of Robert E. Lee.
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I had initially intended to take photos (or have Jessa take photos) of Lee Chapel (old habits) and the Colonnade, but in the end decided that the limited time available would not allow us to do them justice. (I knew a fellow, himself a W&L graduate, who literally made a career of photographing the campus and its community. Pat having now retired, another photographer is apparently poised to do the same.) Instead, I present a few verbal snapshots:
When we first arrived at the Liberty Hall ruins, a lone lacrosse player was hard at work on one of the new practice fields nearby, an attackman working on his footwork and taking low-angle shots from behind the crease. The season was over—the Generals made it to the ODAC championships, falling to the Lynchburg Hornets in the title game—but individual practice never really ends.
A short while later, we were hailed by a campus security officer while driving around one of the newer parts of campus. "Are y'all lost? Need any help?" This simple act of kindness and vigilance led to a 45-minute conversation of the type that characterises the W&L campus and the South generally. Brian caught me up on thirty years' worth of changes and the local impact of the coronavirus pandemic, we compared notes on a couple of mutual acquaintances, we talked about fishing, he even recommended a couple of places to check out on our upcoming visit to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Our conversation concluded with a firm handshake, notable because it may be the first one I had experienced since the onset of the pandemic.
Finally, after dinner at The Palms (happily, virtually unchanged over the three decades of my absence), Jessa and I encountered a beautiful whitetail doe on the back side of the Colonnade. We acknowledged her presence in accordance with W&L's Speaking Tradition, and thus reassured that we were not attempting to sneak up on her, she calmly strode amongst the brick buildings, browsing here and there, all three of us enjoying the peace of the deserted campus at night.
My younger self would have been pleased with the perfection of the moment.
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