As I stepped off the rapido, as the express train is called down there, the name Villa Americana, which means American Village, on the neat little station struck a sympathetic chord in my heart. It seemed good also to see a number of tall, slender men, typical Southern types, such as one might see at almost any station in Tennessee or Georgia, standing on the platform awaiting the incoming train. One member of the colony, who was in the government employ, was with me and performed the introductions necessary. “How do you do,” “Glad to see you,” “Come around and see me,” and similar cordial expressions came from every one. And the best of it is that they were sincere, and not the empty, meaningless expressions so often heard. It was a pleasure to accept several of these invitations, as many as my limited time allowed.
VIEW IN VILLA AMERICANA.
On entering the home of perhaps the most prosperous member of this colony I felt like standing at “attention,” and giving a salute when I saw the silk starred and striped banner of Uncle Sam fastened up on the wall of the “best room.” The house itself, with its large hall, roomy apartments and broad veranda surrounding the house, looked like one of the plantation houses so common in the South. This man had a large family of children, all of whom, with one exception, had been educated in the schools of the United States, and two boys were at that time in one of our colleges. About the whole house was an American atmosphere that warmed the very heart’s blood in a traveller so far away from home. And so it was in the other houses I visited; in every one was the same cordiality, the same pleasure at seeing some one from the “States,” and the same loyalty to everything American. In some of the younger members one could detect a slight accent in speaking English, which is always noticeable when children learn a Latin tongue in their babyhood. The older ones said that these young people speak the Portuguese with a similar foreign accent. The young ladies of the American colony, and there are a number of them, were typical American girls, bright, cheery and free as their sisters are at home, and so different from the Brazilian young women among whom they live, and who are so hampered by the customs and traditions of the race. We took a “trolley” ride over the settlement, but it is rather different from the American trolley, for it is nothing more than an old-fashioned buckboard.
Many of the original members of the colony became dissatisfied, and returned to their former homes. There are, however, four or five hundred Americans still living in this colony, or within a radius of a few miles. A few have moved to other parts of Brazil, and others have intermarried with Brazilians; but, in general, they have remained true to their Americanism. Some of the original families purchased slaves and worked their plantations in that way, until that institution was abolished in 1888. A few have prospered very much, but many others have done just fairly well. One of the wealthiest men made his little fortune out of watermelons. Others have sugar plantations and make brandy, or raise coffee; and still others do general farming, similar to what they were accustomed in the Southern States. A Protestant church, called the Union Church, adorns one hill, and a school-house in a conspicuous building is in another part of the village.
A BRAZILIAN FRUIT MARKET. MELONS FROM VILLA AMERICANA.
Some one had told me that the war was a tabooed subject; that the few older members still left were fighting the battles over. When I met the oldest member of the colony, who had left the United States in 1865, the impulse came to test this subject. I mentioned the fact that my own father had served in the Union army and fought for his country on that side. This old man, who was past the allotted three score and ten, and who had fought with that intrepid warrior, Stonewall Jackson, then told me the whole history of the colony, and the causes that led to its establishment. “It was a mistake,” he said, “but we did not realize it then, and afterwards it was too late to sacrifice what we had here and move back. We still love the old flag.” When I left, he gave me the Brazilian embrace as a special mark of favour; and I verily believe that I left a good friend in this old man who had the traits that we all love in the Southern gentleman.
When Senator Root, then Secretary of State, visited Brazil four years ago, a new station was named Elihu Root in his honour on the Paulista Railway, and this name stands out conspicuously on every time-table of that line. The special train conveying him passed through the Villa Americana, and he was asked to stop and address the Americans. When the train stopped many of the older residents met him with tears in their eyes; and, I was told, the eyes of the distinguished American were not dry; and he has said that it was the most pathetic incident in his trip. He was asked whether it would be better for the colony to remain in Brazil or return to the United States. “Stay where you are,” he said, “and be good Brazilians. You will find the States so changed that they would no longer seem like home.”