Vox Meditantis

15th October, 1926
Washington Square, New York

My Dearest Ella,

As I write these words by lamplight in my small flat, the autumn rain patters against the windows like gentle fingers tapping out morse code—each drop carrying messages I wish I could send directly to your heart. The city bustles below, all honking motorcars and hurried footsteps, yet here in this quiet corner of my world, I find the peace that only thoughts of you can bring.

Your last letter arrived three days ago, and I have read it no fewer than a dozen times. Each reading reveals new layers of your beautiful mind, like examining a precious manuscript under different angles of light. You wrote of the difficulties you’ve encountered with the school board regarding your lessons on contemporary literature, and I confess, darling, that protective instinct within me flared like a struck match. How I wish I could stride into that stuffy boardroom and defend your right to enlighten young minds with Fitzgerald and Hemingway! Yet I know you possess a strength far greater than any defence I could offer—a quiet courage that moves mountains one pebble at a time.

This distance between us tests every fibre of my being. When I cover stories of labour unrest or political corruption here in the city, I witness daily the harsh realities of our changing world. Men fighting tooth and nail for basic dignity, women demanding their rightful place in society, immigrants like my own father struggling to find their footing on American soil. In the midst of such tumult, my thoughts invariably turn to you, tucked away in your little cottage in Chapel Hill, creating islands of learning and enlightenment for your students. You are my lighthouse, Ella—a beacon of all that is good and pure in this sometimes brutal world.

I find myself protective of you in ways that surprise even me. When you mention the disapproving glances of certain townspeople regarding our correspondence, my journalist’s instinct is to pen a fierce editorial defending the right of two intelligent adults to conduct a courtship of minds and hearts. Yet your gentle wisdom, expressed so eloquently in your letters, reminds me that some battles are won through persistent grace rather than bold confrontation. You teach me daily that true strength often wears the mask of gentleness.

Last evening, I walked through the university district here, watching young couples stroll arm in arm beneath the gaslit streets, and I imagined us walking thus together through your beloved Chapel Hill. In my mind’s eye, we discussed Yeats beneath the October maples, debated social reform whilst fallen leaves crunched beneath our feet. The vision filled me with such profound peace that I stood transfixed on the corner of Fifth Avenue, a bemused smile upon my face whilst the city’s chaos swirled around me unnoticed.

This peace you bring to my life, dearest Ella, is perhaps your greatest gift to me. My profession demands that I seek conflict, uncover discord, shine light into dark corners where powerful men prefer shadows. I return each evening to my modest quarters with my mind churning, my spirit sometimes bruised by humanity’s capacity for cruelty and injustice. Yet when I settle into my chair with your letters, when I take pen in hand to respond to your thoughtful observations about Thoreau or your passionate defence of women’s education, a profound calm settles over me like a warm blanket on a winter’s night.

You write of feeling isolated sometimes in your progressive views, surrounded as you are by those who prefer the old ways. Let me assure you, my darling, that your isolation is not abandonment—it is the necessary solitude of the pioneer. Every great social advance began with individuals like you, quietly but persistently challenging convention through daily acts of courage. Your classroom is a revolution disguised as propriety, and I am filled with fierce pride when I imagine you guiding young minds toward broader horizons.

The protective instinct I feel toward you extends beyond mere concern for your physical safety or social standing. I wish to protect your beautiful optimism from a world that too often rewards cynicism over hope. Working in journalism, I witness daily the price of idealism in a pragmatic world. Yet your letters remind me why I chose this profession—not merely to report on humanity’s failures, but to champion its potential for goodness. You protect something precious in me as well, dear heart—the belief that genuine connection and understanding remain possible despite all evidence to the contrary.

When I imagine our future together—and I do imagine it daily—I see us creating a sanctuary of intellectual companionship and emotional intimacy. A place where your teaching gifts can flourish without narrow-minded interference, where my writing can serve higher purposes than mere sensation. I envision quiet evenings of shared reading, spirited discussions that stretch well past midnight, and the profound peace that comes from being truly known and accepted by another soul.

Until that blessed day when distance no longer separates us, know that you carry my protection across every mile between New York and North Carolina. My love surrounds you like armour woven from devotion, and my heart beats in rhythm with yours despite the geographical divide.

With all the tenderness a man’s heart can hold,

Your devoted David

P.S. I enclose a small clipping from yesterday’s paper—a brief notice about the opening of a new women’s college in Virginia. Such small victories remind me that progress moves forward, one gentle step at a time, just as our love has grown through patient correspondence across the miles.

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Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.