The Philosophical Treatise of William H. Ferris
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The Philosophical Treatise of William H. Ferris

Selected Readings from The African Abroad or, His Evolution in Western Civilization

Tommy J. Curry

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The Philosophical Treatise of William H. Ferris

Selected Readings from The African Abroad or, His Evolution in Western Civilization

Tommy J. Curry

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There exists a very rich, but largely untapped well of African American philosophical thought, in which many Black thinkers were debating the role philosophy played in racial advancement among themselves. One such work that demonstrates this vibrant tradition is William H. Ferris’s The African Abroad or, His Evolution in Western Civilization: Tracing His Development under Caucasian Milieu. In 1913, Ferris composed and published one of the most authoritative encyclopedias of Black (African-American) thought and Black civilization. The African Abroad was well known and widely engaged with in Black debates about philosophy, politics and history through the mid-1900’s, yet has largely disappeared from contemporary scholarship. The text itself offers readers the first evidence of a Black idealist philosophy of history that seeks to explain the evolution of the Negro race the world over. The African Abroad establishes a system of thought starting from God, the revelation of knowledge God offers humanity through history, and finally the Negro problem. Ferris offers the world a Black philosophical perspective currently unavailable in any collection of Black authors. He is a racial idealist who offers systematic thinking about the world faced by the Negro in the first decade of the 20 th century. This edition includes Ferris's Philosophical Treatises from Sections I-III from The African Abroad. Tommy J. Curry includes two comprehensive introductory essays highlighting the significance of Ferris’s text in the study of African American philosophy, and the possible contributions Ferris’s thoughts on ethnological thought, the philosophy of history and the role of race play in the larger field of American philosophy.

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Year
2016
ISBN
9781786600349
Part One

INTRODUCTION TO A PHILOSOPHY OF HISTORY

Chapter One

A Narragansett Reverie upon the Eternal and the Ephemeral in Human Life and History

As I selected for a task giving to the world an interpretation of the hopes and longings and strivings and aspirations of the Black Man, and a record of his deeds and achievements, I thought of the larger life of mankind, of which the life of the Negro is but an eddy in a stream. I pulled back the curtain of time and saw savage man emerging from the caves thousands of years ago. I saw how he learned the use of fire and mastered the art of writing. I saw him dwelling in communities and developing states. I saw him offering sacrifice to an avenging deity, and then rise to the lofty conception of an Eternal One. I saw nations rise and fall, dynasties come and go, saw great men play their part in the drama of human history and pass on into oblivion. And then I asked, What is the significance of the toil and struggle, of the effort and aspiration of man, of the blood and tears he has shed? What is human history? Is there any meaning to history? Is it a divine poem, epic in its sweep? Is it a world drama? Is there a mighty power, a Master Mind behind the curtains, shifting the scenes? I will relate the experience that led me to reflect upon the meaning of history and man’s place in the universe.
Whoever has visited Great Barrington, crossed the Housatonic River and wandered along the street which lies at the foot of East Rock, can never forget the beauty and serenity of the view before him. Great Barrington lies in a valley between two long low ranges of hills. As the eye glances down the hill, it stops for a moment to watch the play of sunlight and shade upon the Housatonic River, flowing so calmly between two rows of trees.
Then the way in which the village is nestled among the trees, the infinite variety and contrast of the scene, the dreamy play of the sunlight on the leaves and branches, and the sense of repose and quiet pervading the whole village cause a serene, rapturous feeling to take possession of the beholder and lift him to realms of the infinite.
Finally the eye rests upon the sloping hillside at the other end of the village, and the large residences built upon it. It observes the mixture of forests and meadows, and the trees on the top of the hillside. I thought of the serenity of nature, of those enduring hills that had stood for ages, and something of the peace and quietness of nature, something of the granite strength of those hills came into my soul. But it was another experience which was to lead me to see in nature the manifestations of a creative spirit and to contrast the eternal life of nature with the ephemeral strivings of man.
It was a beautiful August morning when I started for Tower Hill, one of those days when poets love to sing. As I looked up at the sun shining with all its sky-high splendor, casting its rays here and there, and felt the invigorating breeze as it swept over the Atlantic, I was moved by it. I went up the road and turned into the lane that leads to the woods. I listened to the singing of the birds, to the chirping of the crickets, and saw what variety nature threw around me. I looked at those large fir trees that formed an arch over my head, saw the sun-beams as they peeped through the leaves of the trees and cast a yellow glow on some spots and left a dark shade where they did not alight. Across the fields I could see the cows grazing, the bright, sparkling water and the mountains in the distance. I contrasted the different forms of vegetation from the deepest green to the brightest yellow.
Filled with a poetic thrill, I gave myself up to nature, and, stretched on the banks of that beautiful stream, viewed and studied the wild and enchanting scenery. I went to the top of that pile of rocks on that scenic eminence called Tower Hill and looked toward the Atlantic Ocean. I saw every possible variety of scenery—streams, meadows, forests, gardens, houses nestling among the trees, hotels and cottages low lying along the shores, the waters of the broad Atlantic, and, about ten miles across—a dim view, Newport hid among the trees.
I turned to the left and saw how prettily the river meandered through the meadows and around the hills, to my right I studied the wild grandeur of the scene.
But this was not all; turning in the direction of Kingston, I saw the little village of Wakefield, and that prettiest of all villages, Peacedale, almost concealed from sight by the luxuriant foliage of wide spreading trees which surrounded her. Still looking in the direction of Peacedale, I jumped down from the rock, and ran over the ground to the edge of the hill; there I studied and studied that grand, nay, that heavenly beauty of the scenery. So moved was I by this scenery that I forgot everything but the peace and beauty which enveloped me upon all sides. Could I depict the beauty in nature as Homer or Wordsworth did, I could not express the emotions and thoughts which this scene aroused in me. I hold this as a scene which is remembered a lifetime.
It seemed that I was in some vast cosmical cathedral, built within a still vaster cathedral, whose carpet was the green grass, whose statues were the waving trees and flowing vines, whose stained windows were the gilded and golden clouds which reflected the light of the sun, whose choir was the singing birds and whispering winds, whose choral music was the organ roll of the mighty thunder, whose incense was the vapor rising from the misty sea, whose candles were the evening stars and whose lurid lights were the flashing of the lightning, whose vaulted roof was the blue domed sky.
I felt like taking off my shoes, for I believed that I was on holy ground in the temple of the Most High.
Ten years later I visited the same scene, and lived in that Tower Hill house for several weeks. On an autumn afternoon or Indian summer day, I felt that same heavenly peace come over my troubled spirit and felt the tranquilizing influence of a Sabbath benediction. But this time I contrasted the peace and serenity of nature and the calmly grazing cows and the quiet life of Wakefield and Peacedale with the bustle of the summer life of Narragansett Pier and Newport. The cows need only plenteous grass and bright sunshine to complete their happiness; the farmers of Wakefield and Peacedale, who die unknown to fame, need only good crops and the presence of loved ones to complete their happiness.
But it was different at the Pier and at the fashionable American summer resort. There, people sought pleasure and life and amusement, there people vied with each other in giving entertainments. There social rivalry was keen, and men and women were dominated by the passion for social leadership, social prestige and social preeminence.
I reflected, how evanescent is the fame of social kings and queens! Ten years ago a calm and tranquil Tennessee belle and a bright, vivacious Western belle held regal sway at the Pier. Their wish was law in the circle in which they ruled! Gazing admirers stood silently awed. Ten years ago, a sturdy Oxford oarsman and a brilliant, dashing American athlete were lionized. Ten years ago a wife and daughter of a famous Southern statesman, a Southern Governor and retired Commodore were centers of attraction. To-day their names are barely mentioned. Other stars are in the ascendency, other queens hold their court and other figures hold the center of the stage.
In Newport it is essentially the same. Ten years before Count So and So, Lord Somebody, Duke of Somewhere, Earl of Someplace and Marquis of Abroad, were in everyone’s mouth and were followed by envious, admiring eyes, as they rode around the town. Now no one ever mentions their names.
Six years ago a $50,000 dinner, given when mill hands were on a strike and out of work, was the talk of the town. Now it is forgotten. Three years ago a brilliant automobile parade stirred Newport, but now it has passed into oblivion.
To-day two manly English tennis players are in the limelight. To-day the monkey dinner is discussed. But ten years from to-day they will be forgotten. Then I thought of the fate of the favorites at the fashionable resorts, which is ultimately the fate of men and women who dominate things in their day and generation. The thought occurred to me that men prominent a generation or two ago are practically unknown to-day, and even some of the things that should render their names immortal are forgotten. Men who were public figures when I was a schoolboy, twenty years ago, are barely mentioned now, except by their personal friends and descendants. The names of James G. Blaine1 and Roscoe Conkling were in the air twenty years ago. The present generation is fast forgetting them for new heroes and new issues. They live only in the memory of their friends, and even their greatest achievements are practically unknown.
That they played almost as important a part as Charles Sumner in reconstruction legislation, that Conkling in the United States Senate in 1875 crushed the Louisiana conspiracy to overthrow the Federal Authority, that James G. Blaine in his twenty years in Congress paid a remarkable tribute to the colored men who went to Congress, is practically unknown; and one Connecticut Governor, whose name was in every one’s mouth when I was learning my A, B, C’s, has dropped completely out of sight and notice.
Sixty years ago the slavery debate held the center of the stage, but the present generation has not only forgotten the names of many of the chief actors then, but has even forgotten the moral issue involved in the contest. In the late forties and early fifties Samuel Ringo Ward,2 a giant in ebony, electrified English and American audiences on the slavery question, but now his name is forgotten. No one reads his autobiography or cares for the issue that was so dear to him. Very few people know that Gerrit Smith,3 who educated him, was a philanthropist, who, in 1849, gave an immense tract of land to colored men in the Adirondack Mountains. Also, very few know that George Luther Stearns gave $10,000 to maintain liberty in Kansas, supplied John Brown with arms and equipped a colored regiment in the late Civil War. So I might go on and mention many others.
Fifty years from now some of the living men, whose every movement is chronicled in big headlines, who are constantly sought out by newspaper reporters and have snapshots frequently turned upon them, will be almost forgotten by the popular mind.
The vanity of human life constantly recurred to me in these reflections. In the fourteenth chapter of Job we are told, ‘‘Man that is born of a woman is of few days and full of trouble.’’ In the 90th division of Psalms we are told, ‘‘In the morning they are like grass, which groweth up. In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up; in the evening it is cut down, and withereth. . . . We bring our years to an end, as a tale that is told.’’ The cycle of a man’s life is soon run. Men die broken-hearted of political hopes and issues that are soon forgotten. Women fret and worry over invitations to social functions that soon pass into oblivion. The world doesn’t know who gave and doesn’t care who was invited to social functions a decade ago. In school and college days we strive for school and college honors. It seems that our future is bound up with these honors. It seems that without them life would not be worth living. But after we have been out in the world a few years, men will forget them and our record as students, and will ask us, ‘‘Can you solve this problem; can you face this situation; can you meet this emergency?’’ The tragedy in the lives of most men and women is that they fret and worry, pine and grieve over things that will appear trivial and insignificant when they reach the years that bring the philosophic mind.
Nature joys in her floral beauty and her verdant hills, her radiant dawn and sunset tints, her calmness and repose, her peace and serenity, and the splendor of the starry hosts seems to rebuke the feverish, fretful and fitful strivings of man for pomp and honor and fame and glory.
I am glad that when, in the fall of 1902, I began to prepare lectures upon the Negro’s religion and focus the light of sociology upon the Negro question, I was living upon Tower Hill.4
There is nothing that gives a man perspective in human history, that makes him a spectator of all times and spaces and enables him to see all things subspecie aeternitatis, as a view from a lofty eminence. From the top of that lofty eminence I surveyed four civilizations. Down in Wakefield and Peacedale, I saw the civilization of the New England village; down in Narragansett Pier, I saw the civilization of the South and West; over across Narragansett Bay, I saw in the distance the civilization of America’s metropolis; while in the breeze that swept over the Atlantic, in the mirroring sea, and blossoming fields and forests near me, I saw the joyous life of that Nature which never changes and ever remains the same. And at night, when the lamps of heaven began to send out faint rays from afar, I thought of the eternity of the starry hosts and reflected that those same stars looked down upon the cave men, who endeavored to interpret the universe five hundred thousand years ago. They saw the mighty Ethiopian, Egyptian, Babylonian, Assyrian, Persian, Greek and Roman civilizations rise and fall in their splendor, dominate the world for a few centuries, and then pass away. They saw the conquering Pharaohs and mighty Persian kings ride forth to battle; they saw the life of little Pompeii blotted out in a day; they saw the glory that was Greece’s and the grandeur that was Rome’s. They now see the triumphal, resistless march of the Anglo-Saxon race. In the next 50,000 years they may witness the rise of the black, brown and yellow races. Men come and go; kingdoms rise and fall; but the stars shine on in their lonely splendor in the immensity of space.
But what of the men who made these ancient civilizations possible, what of the renowned Ethiopian, Egyptian, Babylonian, Assyrian, Persian, Greek and Roman warriors who led vast armies to battle and dragged nations captive at their chariot wheels? They have mostly passed out of the memory of men and have been swallowed up in oblivion.
The queen of Sheba, and Candace, a shadowy Ethiopian queen, are the only ones of the powerful Ethiopian rulers whose names have gone ringing down the ages. Of the famous Egyptian monarchs, who ruled from 5000 to 200 B. C., Khufu, known by the Greeks as Cheops, who built the wonderful pyramid at Gizeh; Tholmes II, Seti I, Rameses II, and Meneptha, the greatest of the Pharaohs; Psammetichus, Necho II, Ptolemy Soter and Ptolemy Philadelphus are the only names that have survived the marks of time. Of the mighty Babylonian kings who held sway from 5000 to 728 B. C., Sargon I and Hammurabi are the only names which shine with splendid lustre.
Of the powerful Assyrian kings who, in 728 and the following years, conquered Babylon and took captive the Ten Tribes of Israel, and who for six centuries, from 1100 to 600 B. C., made Nineveh great, Sargon II, Sennacherib, and Asshur-bani-pal, known to the Greeks as Sardanapalus, are the only names which have survived.
Of the Chaldean kings who made the seventh and sixth centuries, B. C., ring with their glory, Nabopolassar and Nebuchadnezzar II and Nabonidus are the only names which still live in the memory of man. Of the Persian kings who for over two centuries dominated Asia and part of Africa and broke the sway of the Assyrians and Chaldeans, Cyaxares, Cyrus, Kambyses, Darius and Xerxes I are the only names familiar to every schoolboy.
The study of the Greek and Roman classics and the study of the Bible has made the modern mind almost as familiar with the Greek and Roman heroes and Hebrew prophets as with the great modern figures. But twenty thousand years from now, perhaps Homer, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Demosthenes, Phidias, Pericles and Alexander the Great will be the only Grecian names, and Scipio, Caesar, Augustus, Constantine, Cicero and Vergil will be the only Roman names, and Abraham, Moses, Jesus and Paul the only Hebrew names familiarly known to posterity. Each succeeding century will make their names more dim and shadowy, until finally a hundred thousand years from now, Homer, Alexander, Abraham, Moses, Jesus, Paul, Hannibal and Cesar may be the only names of antiquity known to man. In another hundred thousand years they may all, with the exception of Jesus of Nazareth, have completely dropped out of memory.
Of the great names and figures of the Middle Ages, it may be that twenty thousand years from now, Mohammed, Peter the Hermit, Charles Martel, Charlemagne, William the Conqueror and Dante may be the only ones who will stand out as beacon lights.
Of the great names of the fifteenth, sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries, Martin Luther, Columbus, Copernicus, Kepler, Galileo, Newton, Shakespeare, Cromwell, Milton, Bacon, Queen Victoria, Rousseau, Kant, Peter the Great, Mirabeau and Chatham may be the only familiar names twenty thousand years from now. Of the famous men of the nineteenth century, the Duke of Wellington, Napoleon, Washington, Lincoln, Emerson, Grant, Darwin, Spencer, Carlyle, Gladstone, Browning, Tennyson, Goethe, Lotze, Bismarck, Hugo, Watts, Roëntgen, Metchnikoff, Marconi, Harvey, Koch and Marquis Ito may alone find a place in a history of civilization written twenty thousand years hence.
One hundred thousand years from now the world may have forgotten who discovered America, who discovered the law of gravitation, who propounded the evolution hypothesis, who discovered...

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