[31] The case of St. Peter was expressly within the preacher’s view. “It is shocking, doubtless, to allow ourselves even to admit that this is possible; yet no one knowing human nature from men and not from books, will deny that this might befall even a brave and true man. St. Peter was both; yet this was his history. In a crowd, suddenly, the question was put directly, ‘This man also was with Jesus of Nazareth?’ Then a prevarication—a lie: and yet another.”—_Sermon on the Restoration of the Erring._ [32] Froude, “History of Reign of Elizabeth,” vol. ii., pp. 126, 215, 226, 277, 278. [33] Mr. Thackeray incidentally opposes the quasi-apologists for smuggling on the ground that it is a complicated tissue of lying. In his very last and unfinished work, he makes a good old rector allow that to run an anker of brandy may seem no monstrous crime; but when men engage in these lawless ventures, who knows how far the evil will go? “I buy ten kegs of brandy from a French fishing-boat, I land it under a lie on the coast, I send it inland ever so far, and all my consignees lie and swindle. I land it, and lie to the revenue officer. Under a lie (that is, a mutual secrecy), I sell it to the landlord of the Bell at Maidstone, say.... My landlord sells it to a customer under a lie. We are all engaged in crime, conspiracy, and falsehood; nay, if the revenue looks too closely after us, we out with our pistols, and to crime and conspiracy add murder. Do you suppose men engaged in lying every day will scruple about a false oath in a witness-box? Crime engenders crime, sir.”—_Denis Duval_, chap. vii. [34] From Sir Walter Scott we might gather numerous examples and aphorisms to the purpose. “It’s a sair judgment on a man,” says Ratcliffe, in the “Heart of Mid-Lothian,” “when he has once gane sae far wrang as I hae dune”—the present thief-taker being in fact an ex-thief—that never a bit “he can be honest, try’t whilk way he will.” The career of Effie Deans, anon Lady Staunton, in the same story, is a practical sermon on the same text. “I drag on,” she owns, “the life of a miserable impostor, indebted for the marks of regard I receive to a tissue of deceit and lies, which the slightest accident may unravel.” Her sister, on perusing the letter which contains these confessions, is impressed with such an instance of the staggering condition of those who have risen to distinction by undue arts, and the “outworks and bulwarks of fiction and falsehood, by which they are under the necessity of surrounding and defending their precarious advantages.” Then again there is old Caleb Balderstone, querulous at being what he calls “forced” to imperil his soul “wi’ telling ae lee after another faster than I can count them,”—and elsewhere at the “cost” of “telling twenty daily lees to a wheen idle chaps and queans, and, what’s waur, without gaining credence.”