is ready on the instant. He found a materialist and utilitarian philosophy in possession of the field. He threw himself single-handed against all its forces. He faced them with a raking fire of criticism and contempt. And when the smoke of battle had cleared off, it was evident that he had inflicted heavy loss upon the enemy; and, what is yet more important, that he had compelled his countrymen to reconsider their verdict, to recognize that materialism does not suffice to explain the tangled web of our experience, to own that the last word of wisdom was not with the living statue of Condillac, nor with the felicific calculus of Bentham.
It is of course true that a whole generation of poets—Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Shelley—had, in a sense, been before him on the path; and that no one who, thanks either to instinct or reflection, had comprehended the spirit of their work could possibly have rested content with the materialist creed. It is also true that, at least in the field of political philosophy and the region of ethics which borders on political philosophy, he had, to a large extent, been anticipated by Burke. But Burke had damaged his cause by placing his genius at the service of political reaction. And the song of a poet, however deep its foundation may be laid in thought, can never have the same effect on the multitude as the direct argument of the thinker. It is, therefore, not unfair to say that Carlyle was the first man in this country to throw down a direct challenge to the dominant materialism of his time; or rather that no injustice may be done to men like Burke or Coleridge that he was the first to do so on grounds absolutely disinterested, entirely free from any ulterior ends, whether political or religious. And no one familiar with the facts will deny that the armoury from which he drew his weapons for the challenge was the 'transcendental philosophy', as remodelled and revolutionized by Fichte.
For Kant himself, Carlyle always professed, and mani-
