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The Pitiable Condition of the Colored Race Deplored.

Washington, March 9, 1866.

National affairs are becoming a little more settled in Washington; at least it is hoped that the iron cloud has a silver lining. Mr. Johnson has assured a well-known politician that he shall make his fight entirely within the lines of the Union party; also that he has no office to bestow on “Copperheads.” This is the last manifesto that has been issued from the White House to my personal knowledge. It is true that politicians declare that they will not believe any more of his assurances, because he is sure to contradict himself next day. But isn’t it a historical fact that all great rulers have always been fond of changes? Didn’t good Queen Bess have a new dress for every day in the year? One day Mr. Johnson assumes a political garb that brings great joy to the rebels, alias “Copperheads.” The next day he dons a suit particularly soothing to the ruffled feelings of the Unionists. To-day he chooses to lay aside the Presidential garb, which, by the way, is as heavy and irksome as a coat of mail, and assumes the garb of a humble citizen, and indulges in a few personal insinuations; and shouldn’t we be thankful that the citizen isn’t lost sight of in the mighty ruler? Isn’t this a proof of the soundness of American institutions? From the North, East, and West, from Tennessee, come scathing denunciations from the men who placed him in power, aided and assisted by one Booth; but he bears it with the dignity becoming his high position.

I have not heard of any dismissals from office on account of differing with him in opinion, but some have been dismissed for expressing them.

Among the number I notice Mrs. Jane Swisshelm, a woman not entirely unknown to fame. She has held an office in the War Department ever since the Indian atrocities in her late home in Minnesota; but her out-spoken sentiments in the paper which she is editing here sealed her fate, and the Secretary of War caused a letter-envelope to be laid upon her desk as potent in its designs as any other of the many warlike and immortal plans which have issued from time to time from his fertile brain, to his credit and honor, and the world’s benefit. And how fortunate for the country that we have a Tycoon who has the undaunted courage to resist the blighting influence of the so-called gentler sex, and is not above reaching forth his hand, thereby making woman feel that he is not to be trifled with. Mrs. Swisshelm’s paper, The Reconstructionist, still survives, upheld by its unflinching editress, and if it fails to throw light upon reconstruction, it is because the President is blind and will not see, for her dismissal from office proves that she has not hid her light under a bushel. But it is rumored in political circles that she has been relieved from office in order to go into the Cabinet, as there are Cabinet changes hinted at, more or less, every day.

The beautiful spring weather in Washington is totally marred by the clouds of dust that sweep the length and breadth of our grand avenues. I can compare it to nothing but those moving pillars of sand which bury travelers in the bosom of the great Sahara. ’Tis true one can escape with life, but new bonnets and dresses are nearly if not quite ruined, and the sacrifice is about the same thing; for in the latter case we realize the loss, whilst in the former our friends are the only sufferers.

But the clouds of dust do not prevent our sooty neighbors from spading the gardens, and just now they are engaged in turning up the soil with their blades in that gentle, easy manner which none but a negro knows how to practice. Washington is a Southern city in every sense of the word. It may have been partially redeemed by Yankee thrift during the war, but it is now fast sinking back to its original condition as it was in the days of the “old regime.” Slavery is dead, it is true, but the black man is not a citizen. He is the humblest laborer in the vineyard. But hard as their lot appears, it is far preferable to hopeless slavery; and though thousands of lives of the present generation may be sacrificed upon the altar of freedom, a new future awaits them; and if their Moses has changed his mind, or concluded that he has other work to do, they must bide their time, and raise up a leader of their own race and color, for the Lord has ordained that every people shall work out their own salvation. This is not a political view of the subject, only a feeble woman’s, who can do nothing for the freedman but utter shriek after shriek for him, which has proved just as efficient as anything that has been done in various quarters. Congress has done all it could do; the President has promised to be their “Moses,” and the negro persists in suffering. Who is to blame for it? Do they not bring their sufferings upon their own heads? What business have they to be born? Isn’t it a crime of the darkest dye? I leave this painful subject for wiser heads to explain, but should anything new transpire in regard to it, I shall make haste to inform my readers at the earliest moment.

Since the grand speech from the White House one is astonished at the sudden development of a spirit which was supposed to have collapsed with the rebellion. Great flaunting pictures of General Lee appear at conspicuous places to attract the attention of passers-by. He has taken Washington at last. One prominent bookstore balances his picture by that of General Grant; but a certain other bookstore betrays its ideas very ridiculously by a set of pictures—General Washington being in the center, Jeff Davis on one side and Jesus Christ on the other! Had the shopkeeper displayed the picture of our lamented Lincoln side by side with the assassin Booth my astonishment would have been no greater. Does the community think treason a crime when such things are allowed in our midst? We hear of no more balls, levees or receptions.

It seems as if the early days of the revolution were upon us again, as if we must prepare ourselves for events which possibly might become calamities in the end. New gypsy bonnets are displayed by milliners, but we have not seen a face peeping out from one, either handsome or ugly. And isn’t this a symptom of the earnestness of the times, just as straws show which way the wind blows? I did not mean to write a political letter; but there are times when we are caught in a storm, our eyes blinded with lightning, our ears filled with thunder; rain pouring, and no umbrella; mud deep, and no overshoes. When the storm subsides may we greet our readers under pleasanter auspices.

Olivia.