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Updated: June 20, 2025
"I do," said the man in black, looking around. "Do you know the name of this place?" "I was told it was Mumpers', or Gypsies' Dingle," said the man in black. "Good," said I; "and this forge and tent, what do they look like?" "Like the forge and tent of a wandering Zigan; I have seen the like in Italy." "Good," said I; "they belong to me." "Are you, then, a Gypsy?" said the man in black.
Near the mouth of the dingle Mumpers' Dingle, near Wittenhall, Staffordshire where my friend Isopel Berners and I, the travelling tinker, were encamped side by side, a rather numerous body of my ancient friends and allies occupied the ground. About five yards on the right, Mr.
At length I glanced at the direction, which was written in a fine bold hand, and was directed, as the old woman had said, to the young man in "Mumpers' Dingle," with the addition, near , in the county of Suddenly the idea occurred to me, that, after all, the letter might not contain an eternal farewell; and that Isopel might have written, requesting me to join her. Could it be so?
There was a sort of club also in that street, of larking sort of young men, and when they perceived that the others gave the old man money to get rid of his squeaking, they sent him out money, with orders to stay and play to them, so then the others sent out more for him to go away, and between the two, the old fellow brought home more money than all the cadgers and mumpers in the district.
My companion related her history. She belonged to a Hampshire gipsy tribe, and had been on a visit to a relative down in the East counties, who died on the road, leaving her to be brought home by these tramps: she called them mumpers, and made faces when she spoke of them.
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