e across the historic
isthmus lost colour, then died away. No more painted savages; no more
soldiers; no more gay groups of mounted men and women in bright London
dress; no more worshipful personages in rich velvet and gold lace.
Instead, a slow sombre train crossing heavily over and disappearing
along the forest road on the mainland leading to Williamsburg. Here,
colonial records going by, telling that the brave little capital is a
capital no more; there, a quaint church service, bespeaking abandoned
holy walls and sacred doors flapping in the idle wind; and all along,
those shapeless loads, telling of forsaken firesides, empty streets, a
village deserted. After that, came only an occasional ox-cart, a load
of hay, or (from the other direction) a carryall filled with strangers
curious to visit the site of a little village that was once called
James Towne.

Sadly we let our isthmus sink back beneath the waters; we straightened
the old roadway, and rebuilt the bridge. Then we went ashore to visit
the island, knowing that we should find only a few ruins and one of the
best truck farms on the river.

Landing from our shore-boat near the end of the bridge at a little cove
that made in through a greenery of fox grape and woodbine, we reached
the road and started off through the woodland. It was a pleasant walk
among the fragrant pine trees and in the soft light and the lengthening
shadows of the waning summer day. Abruptly the grove ended, and
thereafter the road led across a succession of marshy hollows and
cleared ridges on its way to the other side of the island. About midway
in its course it divided; one branch passing into a large enclosure,
the other making a detour around it.

The enclosed land, twenty-three acres at the southwest corner of the
island, belongs to the Association for the Preservation of Virginia
Antiquities. It was given to that society by the present owner of the
island, Mrs. Edward E. Barney.

[Illustration: THE BRIDGE ACROSS BACK RIVER.]

[Illustration: THE ROAD ACROSS THE ISLAND.]

Passing within the enclosure and following the caretaker, we approached
with interest, and something of reverence too, a grove near the river
bank. It was a grove in whose shadowy depths is all of James Towne that
remains above ground--a ruined church tower and some crumbling tombs.
As we walked along the curving road, we caught glimpses now and then of
the venerable tower; and gradually it emerged as out of the s