ception and an idea. An idea
is the result of a perception. We perceive a rose when it is presented
to our senses, and we see, smell, or touch it. We have an idea of it,
when, not being any longer presented, we think of it, and call to mind
its qualities. We are said to have a perception of anger, or love, or
any other emotion, when those feelings are present to the mind. We have
ideas of them, when we think about them. It is not our object to enter
upon any abstruse discussion as to the origin of ideas. What has been
just advanced will be generally admitted by metaphysicians, and readily
understood by others. Hoping, then, that the distinction between an idea
and a perception will be carried in the mind, we will proceed with our
argument. There is no difficulty in supposing--and this, we believe,
corresponds very closely to an opinion commonly entertained respecting
inspiration--that God could, without the intervention of words, call up
in the mind such ideas as He might think fit. For instance, instead of
speaking the words, "Thou shalt do no murder," He might, in a
preternatural manner, excite in the mind the ideas corresponding to them.
Still, however, unless we suppose the conditions of human thought to be
altered in a manner for which we have no analogy, the ideas of a man,
killing, etc., must previously exist in the mind, or the revelation would
be unintelligible. Whether, then, the ideas are called up, through the
instrumentality of words, or in some other way, is immaterial to our
present argument. The point we insist on is that, except in the case of
actual perception, the communication of knowledge, by revelation, or
otherwise, _must be limited by the ideas previously existing in the mind
of the person to whom the communication is made_. These ideas may be
combined into new forms, and new relations may be discovered between
them, or they may be analyzed into their constituent parts, but we cannot
transcend the ideas themselves, except by new perceptions.

Let it not, however, be imagined that a revelation, conveyed through the
instrumentality of ideas previously existing, must be so narrow as to
convey little or no new information, or instruction. We have only to
look at the works of Milton, Newton, Shakespeare, and other great men, to
see the almost endless variety with which ideas, and the relations in
which they stand to each other, may be so combined and disposed, as to
minister to the imagin