I left England with my wife on November 13th, 1873, and after an uneventful voyage, reached Bombay, December 9th. We proceeded at once to Calcutta, where some of my old servants joined me, including two bearers, Seewa and Keptie, wild Bhooyas from the Cuttack Tributary Mehals, whom I had trained, and who had been with me for years in all my wanderings, in that wild territory. Thanks to the kindness of my friends the Bernards (now Sir C. and Lady Bernard), we spent only a day at an hotel, and remained under their hospitable roof till we left Calcutta.

My old appointment in Keonjhur had been abolished, and I had to wait till another was open to me. I had several interviews on the subject with the Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal, Sir G. Campbell. Finally it was decided that I should go to Assam (then about to be made into a Chief Commissionership) and act as Political Agent of the Naga Hills, while the permanent official—Captain Butler—was away in the Interior, and subsequently on leave. I knew a large part of the district well, as one of the most malarious in India, and when asked if I would take the appointment, said, “Yes, I have no objection, but just hint to the Lieutenant-Governor that unless he wants to kill me off, it may be better policy to send me elsewhere, as the Medical Board in London said, I must not go to a malarious district, after the experience I have had of it in Keonjhur.” The Secretary conveyed my hint, and when I next saw him, said, “The Lieutenant-Governor says, that is all stuff and nonsense.” Later on Sir G. Campbell asked if my wife would go with me. I quietly replied that she would go anywhere with me.

Finally, on December 30th, we left Calcutta, and after a night in the train, embarked in one of the I. G. S. N. Co.’s steamers at Goalundo, for Nigriting on the Burrhampooter, where we had to land for the Naga Hills. The steamers of those days, were not like the well-appointed mail boats now in use. The voyage was long, the steamers uncomfortable, and the company on board anything but desirable. All the same, the days passed pleasantly, while we slowly wended our way up the mighty river, amid lovely and interesting scenery all new to my wife, to whom I pointed out the different historic spots as they came in view.

We halted at Gowhatty for the night, and early in the morning I swam across the river for the second time in my life, a distance of about three miles, as the current carried me in a slanting direction.

At last we reached Nigriting, and were landed on a dry sandbank five or six miles from the celebrated tea gardens of that name, and the nearest habitations. Fortunately, I had brought a tent and all things needful for a march; and my servants, well accustomed to camp life, soon pitched it and made us comfortable, and my wife was charmed with her first experience. We had a message of welcome from Mr. Boyle, of Nigriting Factory, and the next day went to his house in canoes, whence we set out for Golaghat.

It was to Nigriting that I was carried for change of air nearly twelve years before, when, in April, 1862, I was desperately wounded in an encounter with a large panther near Golaghat, where I had been stationed. I then lived for a week or so in a grass hut on a high bank, and the fresh air made my obstinate wounds begin to heal. Thus it happened that all the people knew me well, and I was long remembered by the name of “Baghé Khooah” literally the “tiger eaten,” a name which I found was still familiar to every one. Loading our things on elephants, and having a pony for my wife, and a dandy (hill litter) in case she grew tired, we set off for Golaghat, and had a picnic luncheon on the way. How delightful are our first experiences of marching in India, even when we have, as in this case, to put up with some discomfort; the cool, crisp air in the morning; the good appetite that a ten-mile walk or ride gives; the feeling that breakfast has been earned, and finally breakfast itself; and such a good one. Where indeed but in India could we have a first-rate meal of three or four courses, and every dish hot, with no better appliances in the shape of a fireplace, than two or three clods of earth? Often have I had a dinner fit for a king, when heavy rain had been falling for hours, and there was no shelter for my men, but a tree with a sheet thrown over a branch.

We breakfasted at a place called “Char Alleé” and the march being long (nearly twenty miles), the sun was low long before reaching Golaghat. As we passed some road coolies, I began a conversation with the old Tekla (overseer) in charge, and asked him if he could get me a few oranges. He said, “Oh no, they are all over.” He then asked me how I came to speak Assamese so well. I said, “I have been in Assam before.” He said, “Oh yes, there have been many sahibs in my time,” and he named several; “and then long ago there was a ‘Baghé Khooah’ sahib, I wonder where he is now?” I looked at him and said, “Ami Baghé Khooah” (I am the Baghé Khooah). The old man gazed equally hard at me for a moment and then ran in front of me and made a most profound obeisance. Having done this, he smilingly said, “I think I can find you some oranges after all,” and at once ran off, and brought me some for which he refused to take anything. The good old man walked about a mile farther before he wished me good-bye; and my wife and I went on, greatly pleased to find that I was so well remembered.

We did not get to Golaghat till long after dark, and pitched our tent on the site of the lines of my old detachment, which I had commanded twelve years before. What a change! Trees that I had remembered as small, had grown large, and some that were planted since I left, already a fair size.

In the morning we received a perfect ovation. People who had known me before, crowded to see me and pay their respects, many of them bringing their children born since I had left. All this was pleasant enough and greatly delighted my wife, but we had to proceed on our way, and it is always difficult to get one’s followers to move from a civilised place, where there is a bazaar, into the jungle, and henceforth our road lay through jungle, the Nambor forest beginning about five miles from Golaghat. At last coolies to carry my wife arrived, and I sent her on in her “dandy” with her ayah, charging the bearers to wait for me at a village I well knew, called “Sipahee Hoikeeah.” The men replied, “Hoi Deota” (Yes, deity1) and started. The elephants were a great difficulty, and it was some hours before I could get off, and even then some had not arrived. However, off I started, and hurried on to “Sipahee Hoikeeah” so as not to keep my wife waiting, but when I reached the spot, I found to my amazement that the village had ceased to exist, having, as I subsequently learned, been abandoned for fear of the Nagas. I hurried on in much anxiety, as my wife did not speak Hindoostani, and neither ayah nor bearers spoke English. At last I caught them up at the Nambor hot springs, called by natives the “Noonpoong” where we were to halt.

The Noonpoong is situated in a lovely spot amidst fine forest. The hot water springs out of the ground, at a temperature of 112 degrees and fills a small pool. It is similar in taste to the waters of Aix-la-Chapelle, and is highly efficacious in skin diseases, being resorted to even for the cure of severe leech bites, which are easily obtained from the land leech infesting all the forests of Assam. Fortunately some of our cooking things, with chairs and a table arrived, also a mattress, but no bed and no tent. We waited till 9 P.M., and finding that no more elephants came up, I made up a bed for my wife on the ground under a table, to shelter her from the dew, but while sitting by the camp fire for a last warm, we heard the noise of an elephant, and saw one emerging from the forest. Fortunately he carried the tent which was quickly pitched, and we passed a comfortable night.

The hot springs are not the only attraction of the neighbourhood, as about two miles off in the forest, there is a very pretty waterfall, not high, but the volume of water is considerable, and it comes down with a thundering sound heard for some distance. The natives call it the “phutta hil,” literally “rent rock.” The Nambor forest is noted for its Nahor or Nagessur trees (Mesua Ferma) a handsome tree, the heart of which is a fine red wood, very hard and very heavy, and quite impervious to the attacks of white ants. Europeans call it the iron wood of Assam. It is very plentiful in parts of the forest between the Noonpoong and Golaghat, and also grows in the lowlands of Manipur.

The next morning we set out for Borpathar, a village with a fine sheet of cultivation on the banks of the Dunseree, and took up our quarters in the old blockhouse, which had been converted into a comfortable rest house. Here again we received a perfect ovation, the people, headed by my old friend Hova Ram, now promoted to a Mouzadar, coming in a body, with fruit and eggs, etc., to pay their respects. The population had sadly diminished since my early days, the people having in many cases fled the country for fear of Naga raids.

The march having been a short one, all our baggage had time to come up. In the evening the girls of the village entertained us with one of their national dances, a very pretty and interesting sight. After a good night’s rest we again started, our march lying through the noble forest, where buttressed trees formed an arch over the road, showing plainly that Gothic architecture was an adaptation from nature. I had never marched along the road since it was cleared; but I was there in 1862, in pursuit of some Naga raiders, when it would have been impassable, but for elephant and rhinoceros tracks. Even then I was struck by its great beauty, and now it was a fairly good cold weather track.

We halted at Deo Panee, then at Hurreo Jan, and Nowkatta, and on the fourth day reached Dimapur, where we found a comfortable rest house, on the banks of a fine tank about two hundred yards square. This, with many others near it, spoke of days of civilisation that had long since passed away, before the Naga drove the Cacharee from the hills he now inhabits, and from the rich valley of the Dunseree. Near Dimapur we passed a Meekir hut built on posts ten or twelve feet high, and with a notched log resting against it, at an angle of about seventy degrees by way of a staircase, up which a dog ran like a squirrel at our approach. The Meekirs occupy some low hill ranges between the Naga hills and the Burrhampooter.

The country round Dimapur is exceedingly rich, and everywhere bears the marks of having been thickly populated. It is well supplied with artificial square tanks, some much larger than the one already referred to, and on the opposite bank of the river we crossed to reach our halting place, are the remains of an old fortified city. Mounds containing broken pottery made with the wheel, abound, though the neighbouring tribes have forgotten its use. At Dimapur, in those days, there were three or four Government elephants and a few shops kept by “Khyahs,” an enterprising race of merchants from Western India.

The ruined city is worth describing. It was surrounded originally by solid brick walls twelve feet in height and six in thickness, the bricks admirably made and burned. The walls enclosed a space seven hundred yards square; it was entered by a Gothic archway, and not far off had a gap in the wall, said to have been made for cattle to enter by. Inside were tanks, some lined with brick walls, and with brick steps leading to the water. Though I carefully explored the interior, I never saw any other traces of brickwork, except perhaps a platform; but I found one or two sacrificial stones, for offerings of flowers, water and oil. One corner of the surrounding wall had been cut away by the river. The enclosure is covered with forest. Near the gateway are some huge monoliths, one eighteen feet in height. All are covered with sculpture, and some have deep grooves cut in the top, as if to receive beams. It is difficult to conjecture what they were brought there for, and how they were transported, as the nearest rocks from which they could have been cut, are at least ten miles away. If the Assam-Bengal Railway passes near Dimapur as is, I believe, arranged, this interesting old city wall will probably be used as a quarry for railway purposes, and soon none of it will remain. Alas, for Vandalism!

History tells us little about the origin of Dimapur, but probably it was once a centre of Cacharee civilisation, and as the Angami Nagas advanced, the city wall was built, so as to afford a place of refuge against sudden raids. It is a strange sight to see the relics of a forgotten civilisation, in the midst of a pathless forest.

On our march up, we frequently came upon the windings of the river Dunseree. At Nowkatta it runs parallel for a time with the road, and we took our evening walk on its dry sandbanks, finding many recent traces of tigers and wild elephants. From that time till we finally left the hills, the roar of tigers and the trumpeting of elephants were such common sounds, that we ceased to pay attention to them, and my wife, though naturally timid, became devoted to the wild solitude of our life.

At Dimapur we enjoyed the luxury of fresh milk, which, of course, the forest did not supply. The night was delightfully cold, and the next morning crisp and invigorating, and we set off at an early hour, for our last march into Samagudting.

For the first eight miles our road was through a level forest country, with the exception of a piece of low-lying grass land, and at a place called Nichu Guard the ascent of the hill commenced. This entrance of the gorge through which the Diphoo Panee river enters the low lands is very beautiful, the stream rushing out from the hills over a pebbly bottom, and it was a favourite encamping ground for us in our later marches. Now, we had not time to halt, so hurried on. The road up the hill was in fair condition for men and elephants, but did not admit of wheeled traffic, had there been any carts to use. We accomplished the ascent, a distance of four miles, in about two hours, obtaining several lovely views of the boundless forest, on our way.

The vegetation on the hill itself had been much injured by the abominable practice hillmen have, of clearing a fresh space every two or three years, and deserting it for another, when the soil has been exhausted. This never gives it time to recover. At last we reached the summit, and took possession of the Political Agent’s house, a large bungalow, built of grass and bamboo, the roof being supported by wooden posts, on the highest point of the hill. A glance showed me that the posts were nearly eaten through by white ants, and that the first high wind would level it with the ground. It had been built by a man who never intended to stay, and who only wanted it to last his time.

Later in the day, I took over the charge from Mr. Coombs, who was acting till my arrival, and thus became, for the time, chief of the district. My staff consisted of Mr. Needham, Assistant Political Agent, and Mr. Cooper, in medical charge, the usual office establishment, and one hundred and fifty military police. Most of these, together with Captain Butler, for whom I was acting, were away in the Interior with a survey party. Mr. Coombs left in a day or two, and I then occupied his bungalow lower down the hill, and in a more exposed position, so as to allow of the larger house being rebuilt. Besides the Government establishment, we had a fair-sized Naga village on the hill, and just below the Political Agent’s house. These people had long been friendly to us, and were willing, for a large recompense, to do all sorts of odd jobs, being entirely free from the caste prejudices of our Hindoo and degenerate Mussulman fellow-subjects.

My first impressions of Samagudting, were anything but favourable. It was eminently a “make-shift place.” It had been occupied by us as a small outpost, from time to time, between 1846 and 1851, but it was never fit for a permanent post of more than twenty-five men, as the water supply was bad, there being no springs, and only a few water holes which were entirely dependent on the uncertain rainfall. A small tank had been constructed, but it was 500 feet below the summit, so that water was sold at an almost prohibitive rate. All articles of food were scarce, dear and bad, wood was enormously dear, and to crown all, the place was unhealthy and constantly enveloped in fog.

Samagudting1 ought never to have been occupied, and would not have been, had the Government taken ordinary precautions to verify the too roseate reports of an officer who wished to see it adopted as the headquarters of a new district, as a speedy road to promotion, and subsequent transfer to a more favoured appointment. The report in question which, among other things, mentioned the existence of springs of water, that existed only in imagination, having once been accepted by the authorities, and a large expenditure incurred, it became a very invidious task for future Political Agents to unmask the affair, and proclaim the extreme unsuitability of Samagudting for a station.

Many other good and healthy sites were available, and I believe that our dealings with the Nagas were greatly retarded, by the adoption of such an unsuitable post. As it was, having made our road over the hill, it was necessary to climb an ascent of over two thousand feet, and an equal descent, before entering the really important portion of the Angami Naga country. I at once saw that the right entrance lay by the Diphoo Panee Gorge, and I recommended its adoption. I began to make this road during the Naga Hills Campaign of 1879–80, and it has since been regularly used.

Having said all that there was to say against Samagudting, it is only fair to mention its good points. First, though never so cold in the winter, as the plains, the temperature was never so high in the hot and rainy seasons; and when the weather was fine, it was very enjoyable. The views from the hill were magnificent. To the south, the Burrail range, from which a broad and undulating valley divided us. To the west, a long stretch of hills and forests. To the east, the valley of the Dunseree, bordered by the Rengma and Lotah Naga hills, a vast forest, stretching as far as the eye could reach, with here and there a large patch of high grass land, one of which many miles in extent, was the Rengma Putha, a grand elephant catching ground in old times, where many a noble elephant became a victim to the untiring energy of the Bengali elephant phandaits or noosers, from the Morung.2 To the north, the view extended over a pathless forest, the first break being the Doboka Hills. Behind these, a long bank of mist showed the line of the Burrhampooter, while on clear days in the cold weather, we might see the dark line of the Bhootan Hills, with the snowy peaks of the Himalayas towering above them.3 Altogether, it was a sight once seen, never to be forgotten.

There was a footpath all round the hill, which, after a little alteration of level here and there, and a little repairing, where landslips had made it unsafe, was delightful for a morning or evening walk or ride. As my wife was fond of botany, she found a subject of never-ending interest in the many wild flowers, ferns, and climbing plants, and soon grew accustomed to riding along the edge of a dizzy precipice.

Our private establishment consisted of ten or twelve servants in all, including a girl of the Kuki tribe, named Bykoout, who assisted the ayah; a very small establishment for India. Servants in Assam are bad and difficult to keep. Most of mine were imported, but, with the exception of my two faithful Bhooyas, Seewa and Keptie, and a syce (groom), by name Peewa, they were all soon corrupted, though some had been with me for years. Seewa once said to me, “The influence here is so bad, that we too shall be corrupted if we stay long.” Seewa was quite a character. One day I got a letter from one of his relations, asking me to tell him that his wife was dead. I remembered her well; it was a love match, and she had run away with him. I feared it would be such a blow, that I felt quite nervous about telling him, and put it off till the evening, when, with a faltering voice, I broke the news as gently as I could. Instead of the outburst of grief I had looked for, he quietly asked, “What did she die of?” I said, “Fever.” He replied, “Oh, yes, I thought it must be that. Will you write and see that all her property is made over to my brother, otherwise some of her people may steal it?”

The state of things at Samagudting was very discouraging. I resented seeing the Government and the establishment being charged famine prices for everything, by the Nagas and Khyahs; also the general squalor which prevailed, and which I felt need not exist. It was the inheritance of the hand-to-mouth system in which everything had been commenced in early days. However, my wife set me an example of cheerfulness, and I made up my mind to remedy all the evils I could. First, the supply system was attacked, and I made arrangements with some old Khyah friends at Golaghat, to send up large supplies of rice and other kinds of food, and as the season advanced, I encouraged such of the military police as could be spared to take up land at Dimapur, and cultivate. For ourselves, I bought two cows at Borpathar, and established them at Nichu Guard, whence my gardener brought up the milk every day. In a short time we were more comfortable than could have been expected, and there was the additional satisfaction of seeing that the arrangements for cheaper food for the establishment proved successful. Water was the standing difficulty; we had to depend upon the caprice of the Naga water-carriers, and frequently my wife’s bath, filled ready for the next morning, had to be emptied in the evening to provide water for cooking our evening meal! Sometimes I got clean water for drinking from the Diphoo Panee, otherwise what we had was as if it had been taken from a dirty puddle. The want of water prevented our having a garden near our house; we had a few hardy flowers, including the shoe-flower—a kind of hibiscus—roses, and passion-flower. Such vegetable-garden as we had was at Nichu Guard, where the soil was good, and water plentiful.

Our house was watertight, and that was the best that could be said for it. It was thatched, with walls of split bamboos and strengthened by wooden posts; there were no glass windows, and the doors and shutters were of split bamboo tied together; the mud floor was also covered with thin split bamboos, and had to be swept constantly, as the dust worked through. We had one sitting-room, a bed-room, bath-room, pantry, and store-room, the latter full of rats. Snakes occasionally visited us, and a day or two after we had settled in, a cat rushed in while we were at breakfast, jumped on my knee and took away the meat from my plate, and bit and scratched me when I tried to catch her. My dressing-room was the shade of a tree outside, where I bathed Anglo-Indian camp fashion, substituting a large hollow bamboo for the usual mussuk, or skin of water.

We arrived at Samagudting on January 23rd, 1874, and by the beginning of February felt quite old residents; hill-walking no longer tired me, and we had made acquaintance with all the Nagas of the village, and of many others, and were on quite friendly terms with “Jatsolé,” the chief of Samagudting, a shrewd far-seeing man, with great force of character.

I have mentioned the Burrail range, and the valley separating us. Besides Samagudting there were two other villages on our side, Sitekima, on the opposite bank of the Diphoo Panee Gorge, and Tesephima, on outlying spurs of Samagudting. I say Samagudting, as it has become the common appellation, but correctly speaking it should be Chumookodima.

On the side of the Burrail facing us, were villages belonging to a tribe we call Kutcha Nagas, a race inferior in fighting power to the Angamis, but not unlike them in appearance, though of inferior physique. These villages were formerly inhabited by Cacharees.4

On February 4th, I had a letter from Captain Butler, saying that he would be at Kohima in a day or two, and asking me to meet him there. He said that three of the police would be a sufficient escort. I accordingly took three men, and started on the 6th, marching to Piphima twenty-one miles, and the next morning another twenty-one into Kohima, two very hard marches. I was glad to renew my acquaintance with Butler, whom I had known when he first landed in India in 1861, and I was in Fort William, studying for my Hindoostani examination. He was a fine manly fellow, admirably fitted to conduct an expedition, where pluck and perseverance were required. Here, I also met Dr. Brown, Political Agent of Manipur, and Captain (now Colonel) Badgley and Lieutenant (now Colonel C.B.) Woodthorpe, R.E., of the survey, also Lieutenant (now Major V.C.) Ridgeway, 44th N.I., I spent a pleasant evening, discussing various subjects with Captain Butler, and early on the 8th started on my return journey.

Captain Butler had done the whole forty-two miles into Samagudting in one day, and I determined to attempt it, and succeeded, though the last 2000 feet of ascent to my house was rather hard, tired as I was. My wife did not expect me, but I had arranged to fire three shots from my rifle as a signal, if I arrived at any time by night; this I did about 500 feet below my house, and I at once saw lanterns appear far above me, and in a quarter of an hour, or twenty minutes, I was at my door. The sound of firing at 9 P.M. created quite a sensation among the weak-nerved ones on the hill, but it was good practice for the sentries to be kept on the alert. Ever after, three shots from a rifle or a revolver, were always my signal when I neared home, and often in after years were they heard in the dead of night, when I was thought to be miles away. My wife used to say that it kept the people in good order, never knowing when to expect me. I think it did.

Life was never monotonous. I took long walks, after our morning walk round the hill, to inspect roads and bridges—a very important work. Then I attended Cutcherry (the court of justice) and heard cases, often with a loaded revolver in my hand, in case of any wild savage attempting to dispute my authority; then I finished off revenue work, of which there was little, and went home, had a cup of tea, visited hospitals and gaol, if I had not already done so; and afterwards went for an evening walk with my wife, round the hill or through the village.

Sometimes duty took me to the plains, and we had a most delightful march to the Nambor hot springs, when I arranged to have a rest house built at Nowkatta, between Dimapur and Hurreo Jan. We reached the last place, just after a dreadful catastrophe had occurred. The rest house was raised on posts, six feet above the ground. One night when the man carrying the dak (post) had arrived from Borpathar, he hung up the letter bag under the house on a peg, and having had his evening meal, retired to rest in the house with one or two other travellers. Suddenly a huge tiger rushed up the steps, sprang through the open door, and seizing one of the sleepers, bounded off into the forest with him. One of my police who was there snatched up his rifle, pursued the tiger and fired, making him drop the man, but life was extinct, and when we arrived, there was a huge bloodstain on the floor, at least a yard long. Strange to say, the letter bag was on one occasion carried off by a tiger, but afterwards recovered, uninjured save by tooth marks. The policeman was promoted for his gallantry.

The day after leaving Hurreo Jan, we met a party of Rengma Nagas coming to see me, with some little presents. They were the men who helped to kill the panther, that wounded me in 1862,5 and they brought with them the son of one of their number, who was killed by the infuriated beast, a fine lad of fifteen; needless to say, that I rewarded these friendly people, whom I had not seen for twelve years. We halted a day or two at the springs, as I had to visit Golaghat on business, and unfortunately missed seeing a herd of wild elephants caught, a sight I had wished my wife to see. She did see the stockade, but the elephants had been already taken out. I hope farther on to describe an elephant drive.

I do not know a more agreeable place to halt at than the hot springs in former days. In cold weather before the mosquitoes had arrived it was perfect rest. A little opening in the tall dark forest, in the centre some scrub jungle, including fragrant wild lemons and citrons, with the pool in the midst; a babbling stream flowed all round the opening, on the other side of which was a high bank. The bathing was delightful, and could be made quite private for ladies, by means of a cloth enclosure, well known to the Assamese by the name of ”Âr Kapôr.” Then the occasional weird cry of the hoolook ape, and the gambols of numerous monkeys in the tall trees on the high bank, gave plenty of interest to the scene, had the general aspect of the place failed in its attractions.

Soon after our return to headquarters, the survey party arrived from the interior of the hills, and after a few days’ rest, departed for their summer quarters. Captain Butler then started for England, and Mr. Needham came in to Samagudting.

Thus left in charge for a considerable period, I felt justified in doing more than I should have done, had my stay only been of a temporary nature, and I went most thoroughly into all questions connected with the hills and their administration. My long experience in charge of a native state full of wild hill tribes, and my personal knowledge of many of the Naga and other wild tribes of Assam (a knowledge that went back as far as 1860), were a great help to me, as I was consequently not new to the work. The eastern frontier had always been to my mind the most interesting field of work in India, and now it was for me to learn all I could.

Shortly after my arrival at Samagudting, I received a cheering letter, just when I most needed it, from my old friend Wynne, then Acting Foreign Secretary, saying, “Don’t be too disappointed at not receiving a better appointment than the Naga Hills. You will have plenty of good work to do, and you will increase your already very extensive knowledge of wild tribes.” It was the last letter I ever received from him, as cholera quickly carried him off, and I lost in him one of the kindest friends I ever had, one who had constantly interested himself in my work, and given me advice. Such a friend would have been invaluable now. Our position in the Naga Hills was an anxious one, and can only be properly realised by knowing the course of previous events.

Our first acquaintance with the Nagas practically began in 1832, when Captain Jenkins and Lieutenant Pemberton escorted by Rajah Ghumbeer Singh’s Manipur troops, forced a passage through the hills with a view to ascertaining if there were a practicable route into Assam. They came viâ Paptongmai and Samagudting to Mohong Deejood. There is every reason to believe that the Manipuris in former days did penetrate into the Naga Hills, and exacted tribute when they felt strong enough to do so. All the villages have Manipur names in addition to their own. But during the period of her decadence, just before and during the Burmese War of 1819–25, any influence Manipur may have possessed fell into abeyance. At that time it was re-asserted, and Ghumbeer Singh reduced several villages to submission, including the largest of all, Kohima, at which place he stood upon a stone and had his footprints sculptured on it, in token of conquest. This was set up in a prominent position, together with an upright stone bearing carved figures and an inscription.

The Nagas greatly respected this stone and cleaned it from time to time. They opened a large trade with Manipur, and whenever a Manipuri visited a Naga village he was treated as an honoured guest, at a time when a British subject could not venture into the interior without risk of being murdered.

Even up to the Naga Hills campaign of 1879–80, the Nagas regarded Manipur as the greater power of the two, because her conduct was consistent; if she threatened, she acted. One British subject after another might be murdered with impunity, but woe betide the village that murdered a subject of Manipur. A force of Manipuris was instantly despatched, the village was attacked, destroyed, and ample compensation exacted. The system answered well for Manipur; many of the Nagas began to speak Manipuri, and several villages paid an annual tribute. Still, up to 1851, we considered that we had some shadowy claim to the hills, though we never openly asserted it.

I may as well give a short account of the different tribes inhabiting the Naga Hills district when I took charge. The oldest were—