Here with a sweep and swing, with head thrown back, and arms at rest, comes a man as supremely indifferent to all this show as the other is abjectly enthralled by it. This man, slowly swinging down the Avenue, is a “cosmos” in himself. Locks profuse and white, eyes big and blue, cheeks ruddy, throat bare, wide collar turned back, slouched felt hat punched in, a perfect lion apparently in muscle and vitality—this is Walt Whitman. Every sunshiny day he “loafs” and invites his soul on the Avenue, and there are other poets who do likewise. Here sometimes may be seen John James Piatt, now Librarian of the House of Representatives, with his blonde hair and brown-eyed wife, who is quite as much a poet as he is; and John Burrough the Thoreau of the Treasury Department, gentle as one of his own birds; and William O’Connor whose poetical fires burn undimmed within the same dim old walls; and, clad in mourning, Harriet Prescott Spofford, sweet poet and sweeter woman. Here of old were seen the gigantic forms of Charles Sumner and of Chief Justice Chase. When the Supreme Court is in session, at a certain hour, a company of immense gentlemen doff their long black silk gowns, and slowly and ponderously wend their way along the Avenue, in mild, dignified pursuit of exercise and dinner. Here, before the sun grows too hot, may be seen the moustached, gesticulating, voluble young _attachés_ of the foreign embassies with the pretty girls of the West End, who they like to flirt with but rarely marry—which is fortunate for the girls. I cannot divorce myself long enough from this divine day to write about men. There is not a man on the face of the earth that would not be tiresome if one had to think of him, to the exclusion of this weather. To think that there are any to be written about when I want to sit in the sun and do nothing, stirs up a perfect rumpus between desire and duty. I am not so fond of my duty that I always spell it with a big “D,” or in every emergency put it foremost. I would like to put it out of sight some times. Wouldn’t you? But then I cannot. “It’s too many for me,” as poor Tulliver said of his enemy. It won’t go out of sight, much less stay there. Something clever might have come to me about tedious men if I had not reached Lafayette Square this morning. There is that in this new bloom so tender, so unsullied, which makes politicians seem paltry, and all their outcry a mockery and an impertinence. To be sure, these green arcades in their outer bound touch another world. Beyond, and above them, floats the flag on the Arlington House. Below, the windows of Charles Sumner’s home hint of art and beauty within. The abodes of famous men and of beautiful women encircle all the square. On one side the white cornices of the Executive Mansion peer above the trees.