imprinted, how can they be innate? And if they are notions naturally imprinted, how can they be unknown?
But since it may be said that these truths are in the mind, but in such a way that it is only when they are proposed that men assent to them, Locke goes on to clinch his argument. If this be true, it shows that the ideas are not innate; for the same thing is true of a large number of scientific truths, those of mathematics and morals, as well as of purely sensible facts, as that red is not blue, sweet is not sour, etc.,—truths and facts which no one calls innate. Or if it be said that they are in the mind implicitly or potentially, Locke points out that this means either nothing at all, or else that the mind is capable of knowing them. If this is what is meant by innate ideas, then all ideas are innate; for certainly it cannot be denied that the mind is capable of knowing all that it ever does know, or, as Locke ingenuously remarks, “nobody ever denied that the mind was capable of knowing several truths.”
It is evident that the force of Locke’s contention against innate ideas rests upon a certain theory regarding the nature of innate ideas and of the relations of consciousness to intelligence. Besides this, there runs through his whole polemic the assertion that, after all, innate ideas are useless, as experience, in the sense of impressions received from without, and the formal action of intelligence upon them, is adequate to doing all they are supposed to do. It is hardly too much to say that the nerve of Locke’s argument is rather in this positive assertion than in the negations which he brings against this existence. Leibniz takes issue with him on each of these three points. He has another conception of the very nature of innate ideas; he denies Locke’s opinions about consciousness; he brings forward an opposed theory upon the relation of experience to reason. This last point we shall take up in a chapter by itself, as its importance extends far beyond the mere question as to the existence of ideas which may properly be called innate. The other two questions, as to the real character of innate ideas and the relation of an idea to consciousness, afford material to occupy us for the present.
The metaphor which Locke constantly uses is the clew to his conception of innate ideas. They are characters stamped or imprinted upon the mind, they exist in the mind. The mind would be just what it is, even if they had no existence. It would not have quite so much “in” it, but its own nature would not be changed. Innate ideas he conceives as bearing a purely external relation to mind. They are not organic to it, nor necessary instruments through which it expresses itself; they are mechanically impressed upon it. But what the “intellectual” school had meant by innate ideas was precisely that the relation of ideas to intelligence is not that of passive holding or containing on the side of mind, and of impressions or stamps on the side of the ideas. Locke reads the fundamental category of empiricism—mechanical relation, or external action—into the nature of innate ideas, and hence easily infers their absurdity. But the object of the upholders of innate ideas had been precisely to deny that this category was applicable to the whole of intelligence. By an innate idea they meant an assertion of the dynamic relation of intelligence and some of its ideas. They meant to assert that intelligence has a structure, which necessarily functions in certain ways. While Locke’s highest conception of an innate idea was that it must be something ready made, dwelling in the mind prior to experience, Leibniz everywhere asserts that it is a connection and relation which forms the logical prius and the psychological basis of experience. He finds no difficulty in admitting all there is of positive truth in Locke’s doctrine; namely, that we are not conscious of these innate ideas until a period later than that in which we are conscious of sensible facts, or, in many cases, are not conscious of them at all. This priority in time of sensible experience to rational knowledge, however, can become a reason for denying the “innate” character of the latter only when we suppose that they are two entirely different orders of fact, one knowledge due to experience, the other knowledge already formed and existing in the mind prior to “experience.”
Leibniz’s conception of the matter is brought out when he says that it is indeed true that we begin with particular experiences rather than with general principles, but that the order of nature is the reverse, for the ground, the basis of the particular truths is in the general; the former being in reality only instances of the latter. General principles, he says, enter into all our thoughts, and form their soul and interconnection. They are as necessary for thought as muscles and tendons are for walking, although we may not be conscious of their existence. This side of the teaching of Leibniz consists, accordingly, in the assertion that “innate” knowledge and knowledge derived from experience are not two kinds of knowledge, but rather two ways of considering it. If we consider it as it comes to us, piecemeal and fragmentary, a succession of particular instances, to be gathered up at a future time into general principles, and stated in a rational form, it is seen as empirical. But, after all, this is only a superficial and external way of looking at it. If we examine into it we shall see that there are contained in these transitory and particular experiences certain truths more general and fundamental, which condition them, and at the same time constitute their meaning.
If we inquire into the propriety of calling these truths “innate,” we find it is because they are native to intelligence, and are not acquisitions which it makes. Indeed, it may be said that they are intelligence, so close and organic is their relation, just as the muscles, the tendons, the skeleton, are the body. Thus it is that Leibniz accepts the statement, Nihil est in intellectu quod non fuerit in sensu, with the addition of the statement nisi ipse intellectus. The doctrine of the existence of innate ideas is thus shown to mean that intelligence exists with a real content which counts for something in the realm of experience. If we take intelligence and examine into its structure and ascertain its modes of expression, we find organically inherent in its activity certain conceptions like unity, power, substance, identity, etc., and these we call “innate.” An idea, in short, is no longer conceived as something existing in the mind or in consciousness; it is an activity of intelligence. An innate idea is a necessary activity of intelligence; that is, such an activity as enters into the framework of all experience.
Leibniz thus succeeds in avoiding two errors into which philosophers whose general aims are much like his have fallen. One is dividing a priori and a posteriori truths from each other by a hard and fixed line, so that we are conceived to have some knowledge which comes wholly from experience, while there is another which comes wholly from reason. According to Leibniz, there is no thought so abstract that it does not have its connection with a sensible experience, or rather its embodiment in it. And, on the other hand, there is no experience so thoroughly sensuous that it does not bear in itself traces of its origin in reason. “All our thoughts come from the depths of the soul,” says Leibniz; there are none that “come” to us from without. The other error is the interpretation of the existence of innate ideas or “intuitions” (as this school generally calls them) in a purely formal sense. They are thus considered as truths contained in and somehow expressed by intelligence, but yet not so connected with it that in knowing them we necessarily know intelligence itself. They are considered rather as arbitrary determinations of truths by a power whose own nature is conceivably foreign to truth, than as so many special developments of an activity which may indifferently be called “intelligence” or “truth.” Leibniz, however, never fails to state that an innate truth is, after all, but one form or aspect of the activity of the mind in knowing.
In this way, by bringing to light a deeper and richer conception of what in reality constitutes an innate idea, Leibniz answers Locke. His reply is indirect; it consists rather in throwing a flood of new light upon the matter discussed, than in a ponderous response and counter-attack. But when Leibniz touches upon the conception of a tabula rasa, of a mind which in itself is a mere blank, but has the capacity for knowing, he assumes the offensive. The idea of a bare capacity, a formal faculty, of power which does not already involve some actual content within itself, he repudiates as a relic of scholasticism. What is the soul, which has nothing until it gets it from without? The doctrine of a vacuum, an emptiness which is real, is always absurd; and it is doubly so when to this vacuum is ascribed powers of feeling and thinking, as Locke does. Accepting for the moment the metaphor of a tabula rasa, Leibniz asks where we shall find a tablet which yet does not have some quality, and which
