There has been much speculation on the question as to whether the mind possesses any ideas entirely independent of the senses, which were gained without any aid or influence from them. Many have maintained the existence of some ideas, which they denominate _innate ideas_, which they suppose were originally implanted in the mind, and not at all dependent on sensation.
On this subject it may be sufficient to remark that there is no _proof_ of the existence of any such ideas. All ideas, so far as we can trace them, seem to have been originally gained by the senses, though the mind has the power of making new arrangements and combinations of such materials as are thus furnished.
The intuitive truths seem to exist as a part of the original constitution of the mind, but there is no evidence that they would ever have been called into exercise except through the instrumentality of the senses.
There is nothing to prove that the positive exercise of thought, feeling, and volition is necessary to the existence of mind, and no proof that the mind might not have existed forever without thought or feeling of any kind, were it not for the aid of the senses. We know that there are periods of sleep and of swooning, when the mind is in existence, and yet when there is no evidence that either thoughts, feelings, or volitions are in exercise.
Speculations on this subject seem to be profitless, because there are no data for determining them. The _facts_ in the case are not of a character to enable us to pronounce positively either that these operations are or are not essential to its existence. It may be that in sleep and in a swoon these phenomena exist, and no memory is retained of them, and it is equally probable that at such intervals all mental operations entirely cease.
But, now that the mind has been furnished by the senses with its splendid acquisitions, upon which its reflective powers can act, it is easy to believe that it might continue to exist and to be in active exercise if all its bodily senses, and even its material envelope, were destroyed. Should we never again behold the light of heaven, nor be charmed with the profusion of varied color and form, still the mind could busy itself with pleasing visions of brilliant dyes, of graceful outline, and fair proportion, as bright and as beautiful as any objects of sense could awaken. Should we never again inhale the freshness of morning or the perfumes of spring, the mind itself could furnish from its stores some treasured incense, never to be entirely exhaled. Should the palate never again be cooled by the freshening water of spring, or be refreshed by the viands of the luxuriant year, yet fancy could spread forth her golden fruits and sparkling juices in banquets as varied and profuse as ever greeted the most fastidious taste. Should the melodies of speech and of music be heard no more, and the sweet harmonies of nature and of art forever be hushed, yet the exulting spirit could warble its own songs, and melt in ecstasies with imagined harmonies. And should the grasp of friendship rejoice us no more, nor the embrace of affection send joy to the heart, yet still the spirit would not be desolate, for it could gather around it the beings most loved, and still feel the embraces of affection.