The fruits of much of the learning of the world are under this roof, and every youth in our land should see its classic stores.
THIS bureau is located in a beautiful white marble building between Seventh and Eighth streets, facing the Patent Office. These two buildings are among the very best specimens of architecture in the capital.
Hon. Francis E. Leupp, the Commissioner of Indian Affairs, receives a salary of $5,000; the Assistant Commissioner receives $3,000. They have about one hundred assistants in Washington, consisting of clerks, bookkeepers, stenographers, superintendents, architects, draftsmen, etc. Of persons connected with Indian affairs, on the field, including Indian agents, storekeepers, teachers, farmers, and artisans, fully 10,000 are paid government money. There are in the United States, exclusive of Alaska, 269,388 Indians under the government care. Of these, 184,881 are not included in the five great tribes. Over 98,000 of these Indians wear the dress of civilization, and over 46,000 can read and write. Of communicant church-members there are 30,935—not a very large proportion after two hundred years of instruction.
There are 59 agencies, and about 20,000 Indians outside of the agencies. The reservations are, generally speaking, the lands which white men considered they would never want, being the most barren, forlorn, hopeless spots in the state or territory in which they are located. Bad as they are, many of them are now coveted by the white man, who, under the plea of breaking up Indian tribal relations, will within a few years buy or appropriate the last acre.
There are now no nomadic tribes; the hunting-grounds are all taken, and the Indian must work, receive government rations, or die. The Indians receive over $200,000 in money, some by contract receive rations through removal, and all are assisted with agricultural implements, seeds, and breeding animals.
It was once my lot to see an Indian tribe forcibly removed from some place in the North to the Indian Territory. A more sorrowful sight can scarcely be imagined. My recollection is that they were the Nez Percés. They were large men with fine heads and faces. The women were worthy to be the mothers of warriors. As they camped for the night, the men gathered in small circular groups, sat Turkish fashion on the ground, and smoked their pipes in absolute silence. Sorrow, dejection, and despair were written all over them. The women pitched the tents and cooked the suppers, with the bent bodies and cast-down countenances of broken hearts.