To the Esteemed Gentlemen of the Greenbrier County Commission

 

 

Bluefield, West Virginia

January 15, 1875

To the Esteemed Gentlemen of the Greenbrier County Commission,

Let fury write the lines that ink cannot contain! My very quill trembles with indignation as I gaze upon that monstrosity you dare call a bridge, slung across the once-pristine Greenbrier like a spider's web snagged on a jewel.

Is this the legacy you wish to leave? This iron and timber affront to nature, this groaning, clanking testament to human hubris? Sirs, have you no respect for the verdant symphony of this valley, the whispering harmony of the pines, the crystal song of the river?

I fought, gentlemen, I bled, for a land where beauty held sway. Where the land itself spoke poetry to the soul, and every bend of the river was a verse waiting to be penned. Did I shed my blood to see that poetry choked by the fumes of industry, that verse drowned out by the infernal clank of your infernal bridge?

I picture Stonewall Jackson, that fiery spirit, astride Little Sorrel, surveying this scene. Do you think he would approve? Do you imagine his nostrils wouldn't flare at the stench of coal smoke, his ears wouldn't flinch at the cacophony of iron on iron? This, gentlemen, is not progress. This is desecration!

You call it a boon to commerce, a link to prosperity? Prosperity bought at the cost of peace, progress at the expense of paradise? I'd sooner see Virginia cloaked in the dust of another war than witness this defilement of her heartland.

Tear it down, I implore you! Turn those infernal girders into scrap, melt the iron back into the earth from whence it came. Let the Greenbrier sing again, unfettered by your mechanical monstrosities. Let her verdant chorus drown out the clangor of your so-called progress.

Remember, gentlemen, that true legacy is not forged in fire and steel, but in the whispers of the wind, the rustle of leaves, the quiet majesty of nature unsullied. This bridge, this blight on the landscape, is a monument to your folly, a stain on the soul of Virginia. Redeem yourselves, sirs. Tear it down.

With utmost indignation,

Robert E. Lee

P.S. If I hear one of your infernal trains bellowing through the valley, I vow to return, not as a soldier, but as a vengeful wraith, to haunt your dreams with the ghost of unspoiled beauty. You have been warned.