Thus the idea of power and the types of personality which, as standing for that idea, have ascendency over us, are a function of our own changing character. At one stage of their growth nearly all imaginative boys look upon some famous soldier as the ideal man. He holds this place as symbol and focus for the aggressive, contending, dominating impulses of vigorous boyhood; to admire and sympathize with him is to gratify, imaginatively, these impulses. In this country some notable speaker and party leader often succeeds the soldier as a boyish ideal; his career is almost equally dominating and splendid, and, in time of peace, not quite so remote from reasonable aspiration. In later life these simple ideals are likely to yield somewhat to others of a more special character, depending upon the particular pursuit into which one’s energies are directed. Every occupation which is followed with enthusiasm has its heroes, men who stand for the idea of power or efficient action as understood by persons of a particular training and habit. The world of commerce and industry is full of hero-worship, and men who have made great fortunes are admired, not unjustly, for the personal prowess such success implies; while people of a finer intellectual development have their notion of power correspondingly refined, and to them the artist, the poet, the man of science, the philanthropist, may stand for the highest sort of successful action.
It should be observed, however, that the simpler and more dramatic or visually imaginable kinds of power have a permanent advantage as regards general ascendency. Only a few can appreciate the power of Darwin, and those few only when the higher faculties of their minds are fully awake; there is nothing dramatic, nothing appealing to the visual imagination, in his secluded career. But we can all see Grant or Nelson or Moltke at the head-quarters of their armies, or on the decks of their ships, and hear the roar of their cannons. They hold one by the eye and by the swelling of an emotion felt to be common to a vast multitude of people. There is always something of the intoxication of the crowd in the submission to this sort of ascendency. However alone our bodies may be, our imaginations are in the throng; and for my part whenever I think of any occasion when a man played a great part before the eyes of mankind, I feel a thrill of irrational enthusiasm. I should imagine, for instance, that scarcely anyone could read such a thing as “Sheridan’s Ride” without strong feeling. He witnesses the disorder, uncertainty, and dismay of the losing battle, the anxious officers trying to stay the retreat, and longing for the commander who has always led to victory. Then he follows the ride from “Winchester twenty miles away,” and shares the enthusiasm of the army when the valiant and beloved leader rides forth upon the field at last, renewing every heart by his presence and making victory out of defeat. In comparison with this other kinds of power seem obscure and separate. It is the drama of visible courage, danger, and success, and the sense of being one of a throng to behold it, that makes the difference.
This need of a dramatic or visually imaginable presentation of power is no doubt more imperative in the childlike peoples of Southern Europe than it is in the sedater and more abstractly imaginative Teutons; but it is strong in every people, and is shared by the most intellectual classes in their emotional moods. Consequently these heroes of the popular imagination, especially those of war, are enabled to serve as the instigators of a common emotion in great masses of people, and thus to produce in large groups a sense of comradeship and solidarity. The admiration and worship of such heroes is probably the chief feeling that people have in common in all early stages of civilization, and the main bond of social groups. Even in our own time this is more the case than is understood. It was easy to see, during the Spanish-American War, that the eager interest of the whole American people in the military operations, and the general and enthusiastic admiration of every trait of heroism, was bringing about a fresh sense of community throughout the country and so renewing and consolidating the collective life of the nation.
If we ask what are the mental traits that distinguish a leader, the only answer seems to be that he must, in one way or another, be a great deal of a man, or at least appear to be. He must stand for something to which men incline, and so take his place by right as a focus of their thought.
Evidently he must be the best of his kind available. It is impossible that he should stand forth as an archetype, unless he is conceived as superior, in some respect, to all others within range of the imagination. Nothing that is seen to be second-rate can be an ideal; if a character does not bound the horizon at some point we will look over it to what we can see beyond. The object of admiration may be Cæsar Borgia, or Napoleon, or Jesse James the train-robber, but he must be typical, must stand for something. No matter how bad the leader may be, he will always be found to owe his leadership to something strong, affirmative, and superior, something that appeals to onward instinct.
To be a great deal of a man, and hence a leader, involves, on the one hand, a significant individuality, and, on the other, breadth of sympathy, the two being different phases of personal calibre, rather than separate traits.
It is because a man cannot stand for anything except as he has a significant individuality, that self-reliance is so essential a trait in leadership: except as a person trusts and cherishes his own special tendency, different from that of other people and usually opposed by them in its inception, he can never develop anything of peculiar value. He has to free himself from the domination of purposes already defined and urged upon him by others, and bring up something fresh out of the vague under-world of subconsciousness; and this means an intense self, a militant, gloating “I.” Emerson’s essay on self-reliance only formulates what has always been the creed of significant persons.
On the other hand, success in unfolding a special tendency and giving vogue to it, depends upon being in touch, through sympathy, with the current of human life. All leadership takes place through the communication of ideas to the minds of others, and unless the ideas are so presented as to be congenial to those other minds, they will evidently be rejected. It is because the novelty is not alien to us, but is seen to be ourself in a fresh guise, that we welcome it.
It has frequently been noticed that personal ascendency is not necessarily dependent upon any palpable deed in which power is manifested, but that there is often a conviction of power and an expectation of success that go before the deed and control the minds of men without apparent reason. There is something fascinating about this immediate and seemingly causeless personal efficacy, and many writers of insight lay great stress upon it. Emerson, for example, is fond of pointing out that the highest sort of greatness is self-evident, without particular works. Most men of executive force possess something of this direct ascendency, and some, like Napoleon, Cromwell, Bismarck, and Andrew Jackson, have had it in pre-eminent measure. It is not confined to any class, however, but exists in an infinite variety of kinds and degrees; and men of thought may have it as well as men of action. Dante, Milton, Goethe, and their like, bear the authority to dominate the minds of others like a visible mantle upon their shoulders, inspiring a sense of reverence and a tendency to believe and follow in all the impressionable people they meet. Such men are only striking examples of what we are all familiar with in daily life, most persons of decided character having something imposing about them at times. Indeed, there is hardly anyone so insignificant that he does not seem imposing to someone at some time.
Notwithstanding the mystery that is often made of this, it appears to be simply a matter of impulsive personal judgment, an impression of power and a sense of yielding due to interpretation of the visible or audible symbols of personality, discussed in a previous chapter. Another may impress us with his power, and so exercise ascendency over us, either by grossly performing the act, or by exhibiting traits of personality which convince our imaginations that he can and will do the act if he wishes to. It is in this latter way, through imaginative inference, that people mostly work upon us in ordinary social intercourse. It would puzzle us, in many cases, to tell just how we know that a man is determined, dauntless, magnanimous, intrinsically powerful, or the reverse. Of course reputation and past record count for much; but we judge readily enough without them, and if, like Orlando in “As You Like It,” he “looks successfully,” we believe in him. The imagination is a sort of clearing-house through which great forces operate by convenient symbols and with a minimum of trouble.