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Before Coleridge went to Cambridge, when nineteen years old he had taken on that masterly quality in conversation that made his society sought, even to the last.  Lamb has told us of the gentle voice, not loud nor deep, but full of mellow intonations, and bell-like in its purity.

Such a voice, laden with fine feeling, carrying conviction, only goes with a great soul.  No doubt, though, the young man had grown into a bit of a dictator, and this habit of harangue he carried with him to College.  To talk enabled him to think, and expression is necessary to growth.  So the habit of argument with Coleridge seemed Nature’s method of developing his powers of mental analysis.  No more foolish saying was ever launched than, “Children should be seen and not heard.”  From lisping babyhood Coleridge talked, and talked much.  When he was twenty, at Cambridge, he drew the boys to his room, until it was crowded to suffocation, just by the magic of his voice, and the subtle quality of his thought.  His questioning mind went right to the heart of things, and in his divisions and heads and subheads even the professors could not always follow him.  Let us hope that he himself always knew what he was trying to explain.

He discussed metaphysics, theology and politics, and very naturally got to treading on thin ice.

In theology his reasoning led him into Unitarianism, then a very fearful thing; and in politics he dallied with Madame la Revolution.

A polite note from the Master of the College, suggesting that he talk less and follow the curriculum a little more closely, led him straight to the Master, with whom he proposed to argue the case, or publicly debate it.  This was terrible!

Stephen Crane at Syracuse University, a hundred years later, did just such a thing.  He sought to argue a point in the classroom with Chancellor Symms.

“Tut, tut!” said the Chancellor.  “Have you forgotten what Saint Paul says on that very theme?”

“Yes, I know,” replied the best catcher ever on the Syracuse Nine; “yes, I know what Saint Paul says, but I differ with Saint Paul.”  And Stevie, unconsciously, was standing on the well-lubricated chute that landed him, soon, well outside the campus.

The authorities did not admire the brilliant young Coleridge, full of his reasons and prolix abstractions.  He was attracting too much attention to himself, and gradually gathering about him a throng of admirers who might disturb the balance of things.  He was there anyway only through sufferance, and an intimation was given him that if he were not willing to accept things as they existed, and as they were taught, he had better go elsewhere.

Piqued by his treatment and feeling he had been misunderstood and wronged, he suddenly disappeared.

Some months afterwards, an acquaintance found him in a company of dragoons, duly enlisted in His Majesty’s service, under an assumed name.