THE IMPULSES AND THE WILL.
Locke, after discussing the subject of innate ideas in their relation
to knowledge, goes on to discuss their practical side, or connection
with will. We shall follow him in this as Leibniz does; but we shall
consider in connection with this, Leibniz's general theory of will,
which is developed partially in this chapter, but more completely
in his critical remarks upon what Locke has to say of the notion of
"power." Since the theory of morals is as closely connected with will
as the theory of knowledge is with the intellect, we shall supplement
this discussion with what Leibniz says upon the ethical question,
drawing our material somewhat freely from his other writings.
The doctrine of will which Leibniz propounds is in closest harmony
with his conception of intelligence, and this not merely in the way
of empirical juxtaposition, but as the result of his fundamental
principles. If we recall what has been said concerning the monad,
we shall remember that it is an activity, but an activity with a
content. It is a force, but a force which mirrors the universe. The
content, that portion of reality which is reflected in the action,
is knowledge, or the idea; the activity which brings this about is
will, or the volition. They are related to each other as form and
content. There is, strictly speaking, no "state" of mind; there is
only a tension, a pushing forward of mind. There is no idea which
is not a volition. Will is thus used, in a very broad sense, as
equivalent to action. Since, however, the activity of the monad is
in no case aimless, but has an end in view, the will is not _mere_
activity in general, it is action towards some definite end. And since
the end at which the monad aims is always the development of an idea,
the reflection of some constituent of the universe, the will is always
directed towards and determined by some idea of the intellect.
We have seen, however, that there are various stages in the reflecting
power of the soul, or in the realization of intellect. Taking
only the broadest division, there are perception and apperception;
that is, there are the conscious and the unconscious mirroring of
reality. We shall expect, then, to find two corresponding stages of
volition. Leibniz calls these stages "appetition" and "volition"
in the narrower sense. The constant tendency in every monad to go
from one perception to another,--that is, the following of the law
of development,--constitutes appetition. If joined to feeling,
it constitutes instinct. Since, again, there are two degrees of
apperception, one of empirical, the other of rational, consciousness,
we shall expect to find two grades of volition proper,--one
corresponding to action for conscious particular ends; the other
for ends which are proposed by reason, and are hence universal. In
this chapter we shall simply expand and illustrate these various
propositions.
Sensations, looked at not as to what they represent, but in
themselves, are impulses. As such they constitute the lowest stage
of will. Impulsive action then includes all such as occurs for an
end which is unknown, or at best but dimly felt. Such action may be
called blind, not in the sense that it is without reason, but in the
sense that reason is not consciously present. We are not to think of
this instinctive action, however, as if it were found simply in the
animals. Much of human action is also impulsive; probably, indeed,
an impulsive factor is contained in our most rational willing. We are
never able to take complete account of the agencies which are acting
upon us. Along with the reasons of which we are conscious in choosing,
there are mingled faint memories of past experience, subconscious
solicitations of the present, dim expectations for the future. Such
elements are decisive factors far more than we realize.
Indeed, it is because of the extent to which such unconscious
influences bear upon us and move us that there arises the idea
of indifferent or unmotivated choice. Were both motive and choice
unconscious, the question as to whether choice were antecedently
determined would not arise; and were our motives and their results
wholly in consciousness, the solution of the question would be
evident. But when we are conscious of our choice, but are not conscious
of our impulses and motives, we get the impression that our choice is
unmotived, and hence come to believe in "indifferent freedom,"--the
ability to choose as we will.
We shall shortly take up in more detail the theory of Leibniz regarding
the freedom of will; and it is needful here to remark only that the
conception which makes it consist in ability to choose without reason
is in direct contradiction to his fundamental thought,--namely, that
there can be no activity which does not aim at some reflection of the
universe, by which, therefore, it is determined. From the psychological
point of view, it is interesting also to notice how Leibniz's theory
of unconscious ideas enables him to dispose of the strongest argument
for indifferent choice,--that drawn from the immediate "testimony"
of consciousness.
Upon the origin and nature of desires Leibniz has much more to say
than about the impulses. His account of the transition from impulse
to desire is based upon the conception of unconscious ideas. Slight
and imperceptible impulses are working upon us all the time. Indeed,
they are a necessity; for the actual state of a soul or monad at any
time is, of course, one of incompleteness. Our nature must always work
to free itself from its hindrances and obtain its goal of complete
development. But it will not do this unless there is some stimulus,
some solicitation to induce it to overcome its limitation. There is
found accordingly in our every condition a feeling of dissatisfaction,
or, using Locke's word, of "uneasiness;" and it is this which
calls forth that activity which brings about a nearer approach to
the soul's real good. But Leibniz differs from Locke in saying that
this feeling of uneasiness is not a distinct, or even in most cases a
conscious, one. It is not pain, although it differs from pain only in
degree. Uneasiness and pain are related to each other as appetite for
food is to hunger,--the first suffices to stimulate us to satisfaction,
but if the want is not met, results in actual pain; if met, these "half
pains" become tributary to pleasure itself. These unconscious stimuli
to action result in actions which meet the want, and the aggregation of
these satisfactions results in pleasure. In Leibniz's own words:--
"If these elements of pain were themselves true pains, we should
always be in a state of misery, even in pursuing the good. But since
there is always going on a summation of minute successes in overcoming
these states of uneasiness, and these put us more and more at ease,
there comes about a decided pleasure, which often has greater value
even than the enjoyment of the good. Far, then, from regarding this
uneasiness as a thing incompatible with happiness, I find that it is
an essential condition of our happiness. For this does not consist
in perfect possession, which would make us insensible and stupid, but
in a constant progress towards greater results, which must always be
accompanied, accordingly, by this element of desire or uneasiness."
And again he says that "we enjoy all the advantages of pain without any
of its inconveniences. If the uneasiness should become too distinct,
we should be miserable in our awaiting the good which relieves it; but
as it is, there is a constant victory over these half-pains, which we
always find in desire, and this gives us a quantity of half-pleasures,
whose continuance and summation (for they acquire force like a moving
body as it falls) result in a whole and true pleasure." In short,
there is indeed an element of pain in all desire which stimulates
us to action, and therefore to higher development. But ordinarily
this element of pain is not present as such in consciousness, but
is absorbed in the pleasure which accompanies the realization of the
higher good. Thus Leibniz, accepting and emphasizing the very same fact
that served Schopenhauer as a psychological base of pessimism, uses it
as a foundation-stone of optimism.
But desire, or the conscious tendency towards something required as a
good, accompanied by the dim feeling of uneasiness at its absence, does
not yet constitute the complete act of volition. "Several impulses and
inclinations meet in forming the complete volition which is the result
of their conflict." In the concrete act of will there are contained
impulses which push us towards some end whose nature is not known;
there is desire both in its inchoate stage, where pleasure and pain
are not in consciousness, and in its formed state, where the pain
and pleasure are definitely presented. Mixed with these desires and
impulses are images of past experiences which call up the feelings
which were formerly attached to them, and thus there are aroused
indirectly additional impulses and desires. Out of this complicated
mass of impulses, desires, and feelings, both original and reproduced,
comes the "dominant effort" which constitutes complete will. But what
governs the production of this prevailing or dominant effort, which we
may interpret as the act of choice? The answer is simple: the result
of the conflict of these various factors, the striking of the balance,
_is_ the choice. Some desire emerges from the confused complex, and
that desire is the final determination of the will. This desire may
not in all cases be the strongest in itself,--that is, the one whose
satisfaction will allay the greatest "uneasiness," for the others,
taken together, may outweigh it; it may, so to speak, have a plurality,
but not a majority, of volitional forces on its side,--and in this case
a fusion of opposing factors may defeat it. But in any event the result
will be the _algebraic_ sum of the various desires and impulses.
It is not at all necessary, however, that the net outcome shall make
itself apparent as a mechanical equivalent of the forces at work. The
soul, Leibniz says, may use its skill in the formation of parties,
so as to make this or that side the victor. How is this to be done,
and still disallow the possibility of arbitrary choice? This problem
is solved through action becoming deliberate. Deliberate action is
impossible unless the soul has formed the habit of looking ahead and
of arranging for modes of action which do not present themselves as
immediate necessities. Only in this way can one look at the matter
impartially and coolly; "at the moment of combat there is no time for
discussion. Everything which then occurs throws its full force on the
balance, and contributes to an outcome made up in the same way as in
mechanics." The formation of certain habits beforehand, therefore, is
the secret of translating impulsive action into the deliberate sphere.
Of these habits the simplest consists in thinking only occasionally and
incidentally of certain things. Imagination is the mother of desire. If
we do not allow the imagination to dwell upon certain lines of thought,
the probability of such thoughts acquiring sufficient force to become
motives of weight is small. A still more effective method of regulating
action is "to accustom ourselves to forming a train of thoughts of
which reason, and not chance (that is, association), is the basis. We
must get out of the tumult of present impressions, beyond our immediate
surroundings, and ask: _Dic cur hic? respice finem!_" In other words,
we must cross-question our impulses and desires, we must ask whence
they come, that we may see how valid are the credentials which they
offer. We must ask whither they tend, that we may measure them, not by
their immediate interest, but by their relation to an end. The desires
are not to be taken at their face-value, but are to be weighed and
compared.
Such a process will evidently result in arresting instantaneous
action. There will be a pause between the presentation of the
desires and the overt act. During this pause it may well occur that
the examination to which the desires have been subject has awakened
contrary desires. The thought of the ignoble origin of a desire or of
its repulsive, though remote, result will bring into action desires of
an opposed kind. Thus the soul regulates action, not as if, however, it
had any direct influence over desires, but by its ability of bringing
other desires into the field. The will, in short, is not opposed to
desire, though rational desire may be opposed to sensuous desire. "By
various artifices, then," Leibniz concludes, "we become masters of
ourselves, and can make ourselves think and do that which we ought
to will, and which reason ordains." Such is the summary of Leibniz's
analysis of the elements and mechanism of volition. There was not much
psychology existing at the time which could aid him in such an acute
and subtle account; only in Aristotle could he have found much help. On
the other hand, it has been so generally incorporated into current
psychology that we may seem to have wasted space in repeating truisms.
Of moral action, however, we have as yet heard nothing. We have an
account of a psychological mechanism; but for what ethical end does
this work, and by what method? This question may best be answered
by turning in more detail to the question of the "freedom of the
will." Freedom in the sense of arbitrary choice Leibniz wholly
rejects, as we have seen. It is inconsistent with at least two of
his fundamental principles; those, namely, of sufficient reason,
and of continuity. "Everything that occurs must have a sufficient
reason for its occurrence." This oft-repeated dictum of Leibniz, the
logical way of stating the complete rationality of experience, would
be shattered into fragments by collision with groundless choice. It
conflicts equally (indeed for the same reason) with the principle of
continuity. "The present is pregnant with the future." "Nature never
makes leaps." "An absolute equilibrium is a chimera." "The soul is
never wholly at rest." These are only various ways of saying that the
notion of arbitrary or unmotivated choice rests upon the assumption
that there is a complete break in the life of the soul, so that it
is possible for something to happen which bears no organic relation
to anything that precedes. The notion of a state of the soul without
motives, followed by the irruption of a certain line of conduct, the
notion of an equilibrium broken by arbitrary choice, is simply the
counterpart of the idea of a vacuum. All that makes Leibniz reject the
latter conception makes it impossible for him to accept the former.
This should not be interpreted to mean that Leibniz denied the "freedom
of the will." What he denied is a notion of freedom which seemed to him
at once unverifiable, useless, and irrational. There is a conception
of freedom which Leibniz not only accepts, but insists upon. Such a
notion of freedom is indeed his ethical ideal. Its three traits are
contingency, spontaneity, and rationality of action. How action can
be at the same time contingent and determined is perhaps difficult
to understand; but Leibniz takes the position that it is. His first
step is to distinguish between physical, mathematical, metaphysical,
and moral necessity. There are truths which are eternal, truths
which are absolutely necessary, because their opposites involve
contradiction. They cannot be violated without involving us in
absurdity. There are other truths which are "positive," that is,
ordained for good reason. These truths may be _a priori_, or rational,
and not merely empirical; for they have been chosen for reasons of
advantage. God always chooses and ordains the best of a number of
possibilities; but he does it, not because the opposite is impossible,
but because it is inferior. Truths whose opposites are impossible
have metaphysical and mathematical necessity. Positive truths have
moral necessity. The principle of causation _must_ be true; the three
interior angles of a triangle _must_ be equal to two right angles. But
that God shall choose the better of two courses is a moral necessity
only. It invokes no absolute logical contradiction to conceive him
choosing some other way. Upon moral necessity depends the physical. The
particular laws of nature are necessary, not because their opposites
are logically absurd, but because these laws are most in accordance
with the general principles of good and order, in agreement with which
God chooses. Physical and moral action is therefore in all cases
contingent. (Contingency does not of itself, of course, constitute
freedom, but conjoined with the characteristics of rationality and
spontaneity, does so.)
Necessity, in short, is based upon the principle of logical
contradiction; contingency upon that of sufficient reason. Since our
actions are in no case necessitated in such a way that their opposite
is self-contradictory, or, put positively, since our actions are always
determined by the choice of that which seems best, our actions are
contingent. Occasionally Leibniz puts the matter in a much simpler way,
and one which brings out the essential element more clearly than the
foregoing distinction. Some facts are determined by the principle of
physical causation; others by that of final causation. Some, in other
words, are necessary as the mechanical outcome of their antecedents;
others are necessary as involved in the reaching of a given end. It is
simply the Aristotelian distinction between efficient and teleological
causation. Human action is determined, since it always has a motive or
reason; it is contingent, because it springs from this reason and not
from its temporal antecedents. It is, in short, determined, but it is
also free.
It does not require much analysis, however, to see that this
distinction, in whatever way it be put, really has no significance,
except as it points to the other marks of freedom,--spontaneity
and rationality. As we shall see, Leibniz makes and can make
no absolute distinction between truths of reason and truths of
fact. The contingent and the necessary are one at bottom. To us
with our limited intelligence it does indeed often appear as if no
contradiction were involved in the former,--as if, for example, a man
could turn either to right or left without there being any logical
contradiction in either case; but this is because of our defective
insight. An intelligence cognizant of the whole matter could see that
one action would contradict some truth involved in the constitution
of the universe. The source of the contingent and changing is in the
necessary and eternal. Thus it is that although Leibniz at one time
says that "neither one's self nor any other spirit more enlightened
could demonstrate that the opposite of a given action (like going out
in preference to staying in) involves contradiction," at another time
he says that "a perfect knowledge of all the circumstances, internal
and external, would enable any one to foresee" the decision in a given
case. If that be so, any other action must be impossible; that is,
according to Leibniz's invariable logic, imply contradiction.
We get the same result if we consider the relation of final and
efficient causes. It is only when speaking in a very general way that
Leibniz opposes action as determined by precedent activities to that
directed towards the attainment of an end. He does not really mean
that _some_ action is physical, while _other_ is teleological. He
cannot suppose that some action has an antecedent cause, while other
has a purpose. The very essence of his thought is that action is
both mechanical and teleological; that all action follows in a law of
order from precedent action, and that all fulfils a certain spiritual
function. The distinction is not, with Leibniz, one between two kinds
of action, but between two ways of looking at every action. The desire
to go rather than to stay, has its efficient cause; the movements by
which the desire is executed, have their final cause. The truth of
the matter seems to be that Leibniz in his desire to guard against
being thought a fatalist, or one denying all freedom, uses terms
which are compatible only with a freedom of indifference. So in his
statement that man's action is free because "contingent," he seems
actuated rather by a wish to avoid the hateful term "necessity" than by
considerations strictly in harmony with his own principles.
Had he confined his use of the term "contingent," however, simply to
re-stating the fact that human action is spontaneous, no such apparent
contradiction would have presented itself. Human actions may be called
contingent, as physical actions are not, because the latter always
seem to be externally determined, while the former are internally
directed. Motions act from without; motives from within. The cause of
the falling of a stone lies outside it; the source of a desire which
moves to action is from the mind itself. We are thus introduced to
contingency as a synonym of "spontaneity."
Kuno Fischer calls attention to the fact that Spinoza and Leibniz both
use the same sort of illustration to show the non-arbitrary character
of human action, but the same illustration with a difference;
and in the difference he finds the distinction between the two
philosophies. Spinoza says that a stone falling to the ground, if
endowed with consciousness, might imagine itself following its own will
in falling. Leibniz says that a magnetic needle similarly endowed might
imagine that it turned towards the north simply because it wished. Both
examples are used to illustrate the folly of relying upon the immediate
"testimony" of consciousness. But the example of Spinoza is that of an
object, all whose movements are absolutely necessitated from without;
the example of Leibniz is that of an object whose activity, though
following law, and not caprice, is apparently initiated from within. Of
course in reality the movements of the magnetic needle are just as much
externally conditioned as those of the stone; but the appearance of
self-action in the latter case may serve at least to exemplify what is
meant by spontaneity as attributed to human action.
It must be noticed at the outset that spontaneity belongs to every
simple substance. We have only to recall the doctrine of monads. These
suffer nothing from without, all their activity is the expression,
is the unfolding, of their own law. "By nature," Leibniz says, "every
simple substance has perceptions, and its individuality consists in
the permanent law which forms the succession of its perceptions, that
are born naturally one of another. Hence it is not necessary for it to
receive any physical influence from without; and therefore the soul has
in itself a perfect spontaneity in such a way that its actions depend
only upon God and itself." Or if we put the matter in its connection
with his psychology rather than with his metaphysics, it is true that
our actions are determined by our motives; but motives are not forces
without the soul, they are forces _of_ the soul. In acting according to
motives the soul is simply acting according to its own laws. A desire
is not an impulsion from an external cause; it is the expression of an
inward tendency. To say that the soul acts from the strongest desire
is simply to say, from this standpoint, that it manifests the most
real part of itself, not that it obeys a foreign force. Impulses,
desires, motives, are all psychical; they admit of no description or
explanation except in their relation to the soul itself. Thus when
Leibniz compares, as he often does, motives to weights acting upon a
balance, we are to remember that the balance is not to be conceived
as the soul, and the weights as energies outside it, but that this is
only a way of picturing what is going on _within_ the soul itself. The
soul may be a mechanism, but it is a self-directing and self-executing
mechanism. To say that human action is free because it is spontaneous,
is to say that it follows an immanent principle, that it is independent
of foreign influences,--in a word, that it is self-determined.
But here again it seems as if Leibniz had stated a principle
altogether too wide to throw any light upon the nature of moral
freedom. Spontaneity is no more an attribute of human activity than it
is of all real activity. Every monad, even the unconscious, as truly
follows its own law without interference from without as does man
himself. If the spontaneity of action constitutes its morality, we are
not in a condition to ascribe morality to man any more than to any real
thing. We are thus thrown back again upon the conception of rationality
as the final and decisive trait of freedom and of ethical conduct. Just
as "contingency" gets a moral import only in connection with conscious
ends of action, so "spontaneity" comes within the moral realm only when
conjoined to reason.
Why is there this close connection between reason and freedom? The
reader has only to recall what was said of Leibniz's theory of
causality to get a glimpse into their unity. Causality is not a matter
of physical influence, but of affording the reason in virtue of which
some fact is what it is. This applies of course to the relation of the
soul and the body. "So far as the soul is perfect and has distinct
ideas, God has accommodated the body to it; so far as the soul is
imperfect and its ideas are confused, God has accommodated the soul to
the body. In the former case the body always responds to the demands
of the soul; in the latter the soul is moved by the passions which
are born of the sensuous ideas. Each is thought to act upon the other
in the measure of its perfection [that is, degree of activity], since
God has adjusted one thing to another according to its perfection or
imperfection. Activity and passivity are always reciprocal in created
things, because a portion of the reasons which serve to explain what
goes on is in one substance, and another portion in the other. This is
what makes us call one active, the other passive."
If we translate these ideas out of their somewhat scholastic
phraseology, the meaning is that the self-activity of any substance
is accurately measured by the extent to which it contains the reasons
for its own actions; and conversely, that it is dependent or enslaved
just so far as it has its reasons beyond itself. Sensations, sensuous
impulses, represent, as we have seen before, the universe only in a
confused and inarticulate way. They are knowledge which cannot give
an account of itself. They represent, in short, that side of mind
which may be regarded as affected, or the limitation of mind,--its
want of activity. So far as the mind acts from these sensations and
the feelings which accompany them, it is ideally determined from
without; it is a captive to its own states; it is in a condition of
passivity. In all action, therefore, which occurs from a sensuous
basis, the soul is rightly regarded as unfree.
On the other hand, just in the degree in which distinctness is
introduced into the sensations, so that they are not simply experienced
as they come, but are related to one another so that their reason
for existence, their spiritual meaning, is ascertained, just in
that degree is the soul master of itself. In Leibniz's own words:
"Distinct knowledge or intelligence has its place in the true use of
reason, while the senses furnish confused ideas. Hence we can say that
we are free from slavery just in the degree that we act with distinct
knowledge, but are subject to our passions in just the degree that our
ideas are confused;" that is, not really representative of things as
they are. "Intelligence is the soul of liberty."
This psychological explanation rests, of course, upon the foundation
principle of the Leibnizian philosophy. Spirit is the sole reality,
and spirit is activity. But there are various degrees of activity, and
each grade lower than the _purus actus_ may be rightfully regarded as
in so far passive. This relative passivity or unreality constitutes
the material and hence the sensuous world. One who has not insight
into truth, lives and acts in this world of comparative unreality;
he is in bondage to it. From this condition of slavery only reason,
the understanding of things as they are, can lift one. The rational
man is free because he acts, in the noble words of Spinoza, _sub specie
æternitatis_. He acts in view of the eternal truth of things,--as God
himself would act.
God alone, it further follows, is wholly free. In him alone are
understanding and will wholly one. In him the true and the good are
one; while every created intelligence is subject in some degree to
sensuous affection, to passion. "In us, besides the judgment of the
understanding, there is always mixed some unreal idea of the sensation
which gives birth to passions and impulses, and these traverse the
judgment of the practical understanding." Freedom, in fine, is not
a ready made garment with which all men are clothed to do with as
they will. It is the ethical ideal; it is something to be attained;
it is action in conformity with reason, or insight into the spiritual
nature of reality and into its laws; it is not the starting-point, it
is the goal. Only with a great price do men purchase such freedom. It
will be noticed at once that Leibniz comes very close to Plato in his
fundamental ethical ideas. The unity of virtue and reason, of virtue
and freedom,--these are thoroughly Platonic conceptions. To both Plato
and Leibniz reason is the ethical ideal because it is the expression
of, nay, rather, _is_ the reality of the universe; while all else is,
as Leibniz says, imperfect or unreal, since it is not an activity, or,
as Plato says, a mixture of Being and Non-Being. Again, to both man
bears a similar relation to this spiritual reality. In Plato's words,
he participates in the Ideas; in those of Leibniz he reflects, as a
mirror, the universe. To both, in a word, the reality, the true-self
of the individual, is the spiritual universe of which it is an organic
member. To both, therefore, man obtains freedom or self-realization
only as he realizes his larger and more comprehensive identity with the
Reason of the universe. With both, knowledge is the good, ignorance is
the evil. No man is voluntarily bad, but only through lack of knowledge
of the true Good. Leibniz, however, with a more developed psychology,
supplements Plato in the point where the latter had the most
difficulty,--the possibility of the feelings or of a love of pleasure
overcoming knowledge of the good. This possibility Plato was compelled
to deny, while Leibniz, by his subtle identifying of the passions with
lack of knowledge, or with confused knowledge, can admit it. "It is an
imperfection of our freedom," says Leibniz, "which causes us to choose
evil rather than good,--a greater evil rather than the less, the less
good rather than the greater. This comes from the _appearances_ of good
and evil which deceive us; but God, who is perfect knowledge, is always
led to the true and to the best good, that is, to the true and absolute
good."
It only remains briefly to apply these conceptions to some specific
questions of moral actions. Locke asks whether there are practical
innate ideas, and denies them, as he denies theoretical. Leibniz,
in replying, recognizes two kinds of "innate" practical principles,
one of which is to be referred to the class of instincts, the other
to that of maxims. Primarily, and probably wholly in almost all
men, moral truths take the rank of instincts alone. All men aim
at the Good; it is impossible to think of man wilfully seeking
his own evil. The methods, the means of reaching this Good, are
implanted in men as instincts. These instincts, when brought to the
light of reason and examined, become _maxims_ of action; they lose
their particular and impulsive character, and become universal and
deliberate principles. Thus Leibniz is enabled to answer the various
objections which are always brought against any "intuitive" theory
of moral actions,--the variability of men's moral beliefs and conduct
in different countries and at different times. Common instincts, but
at first instincts only, are present in all men whenever and wherever
they live. These instincts may readily be "resisted by men's passions,
obscured by prejudice, and changed by custom." The moral instincts are
always the basis of moral action, but "custom, tradition, education"
become mixed with them. Even when so confounded, however, the instinct
will generally prevail, and custom is, upon the whole, on the side of
right rather than wrong, so that Leibniz thinks there is a sense in
which all men have one common morality.
But these moral instincts, even when pure, are not ethical
science. This is innate, Leibniz says, only in the sense in which
arithmetic is innate,--it depends upon demonstrations which reason
furnishes. Leibniz does not, then, oppose intuitive and demonstrative,
as sometimes happens. Morality is _practically_ intuitive in the sense
that all men tend to aim at the Good, and have an instinctive feeling
of what makes towards the Good. It is _theoretically_ demonstrative,
since it does not become a science until Reason has an insight into the
nature of the Good, and ascertains the fixed laws which are tributary
to it. Moral principles are _not_ intuitive in the sense that they are
immediately discovered as separate principles by some one power of the
soul called "conscience." Moral laws are intuitive, he says, "as the
_consequences_ of our own development and our true well-being." Here we
may well leave the matter. What is to be said in detail of Leibniz's
ethics will find its congenial home in what we have to say of his
theology.