"Through broken walls and grey
The winds blow bleak and shrill;
They are all gone away.
Nor is there one to-day
To speak them good or ill;
There is nothing more to say."
There is reason to believe that the rustics in Wilts and Dorset who bear different forms of the name Turberville, altered into Tellafield and Troublefield, are in truth the descendants of illegitimate branches of the family. One ancient Dorset rustic with the name of Tollafield, who aroused my interest, said to me in all seriousness that he would not care to go rummaging into the history of the old Turberville people. "You depend upon it, they were a bad lot—the parson told me so. There is no telling what them folks' speerits might not be up to, if so be the old devil had got ahold on 'em." This rustic, though an old man, had an eye as keen as a hawk's, was a man of immensely powerful frame, and would sleep under a hedge any night and feel little the worse for it. When I looked at his clear, hard blue eyes and straight, haughty nose he gave me the feeling that the Turberville blood had really survived in him. Then I learned that he was a flagrant poacher and, like the old earth-stopper in Masefield's poem,
"His snares made many a rabbit die.
On moony nights he found it pleasant