speaking of the inconvertible paper money, he recanted his views of 1811, as his opinions with regard to the question had undergone “a material change.”  “He had,” he said, “voted against Mr. Hooner’s resolutions in 1811, he would now vote for them if they were brought forward.”  In his Memoirs, speaking of the Corn Laws, “he had,” he says, “adopted at an early period of his public life, without, he fears, much serious reflection, the opinions generally prevalent of the justice and necessity of protection to domestic agriculture, but the progress of discussion had made a material change in the opinions of many persons” [himself of course amongst the number] “with regard to the policy of protection to domestic agriculture.”  It is true, then, that this eminent statesman was at school all his life, a diligent student, willing and anxious to learn, but always conducting his studies from a Conservative standpoint.  It is no discredit to him—­far from it.  And although the tide of progress carried him to the extent of breaking up his own party, in doing so he was acting, he considered, for the interests of England.  Nothing can be more absurd and wicked in a statesman than to allow himself to be impounded within the narrow iron-bound circle of party, and to persevere in sustaining the views and principles of that party against justice, conscience and fact.

Great and varied as were the powers of Sir Robert Peel as a public speaker, he was not an orator in the strictest and highest sense of that word.  True oratory is the offspring of genius, and he, gifted though he was, had not the sacred fire of genius in his soul.  In the style which he adopted, and which was probably the best suited to his natural powers, he was all but perfect:  lucid, argumentation, frank, at least in seeming, bland, persuasive; always singularly respectful not only to the House, but to the humblest member of it; his speeches partook more of the lecture and less of oratorical display than those of most other public men with anything like his reputation; but they were admirably suited to an educated and deliberative assembly like the House of Commons—­and hence he influenced—­almost ruled it, as no other man did before or since.  Knowing this, he never felt so happy or so much at home as in that scene of his labours and his triumphs.  His gesture was inferior:  he used it but seldom, and when he did it added neither to the grace nor effectiveness of his delivery.  He sometimes appeared to be at a loss to know what to do with his arms:  at one time he would thrust his thumbs into the armholes of his vest; at another he would let his arms fall into a sort of swinging motion at his sides, where he allowed, rather than used them, to toss back his coatskirts in a confused, undignified manner.

He never spoke on important questions without careful preparation, as was always evident from the facts and arguments of which his speeches chiefly consisted, as well as from their careful arrangement.  His voice was fine, and he had the skill, rare enough in public speakers, of modulating it with excellent effect.