have been my alternative? Friendless, homeless, nameless—an orphan, worse than an orphan—the son of a harlot, my father even unknown! yet cursed with early aspirings and restlessness, and a half glimmering of knowledge, and an entire lust of whatever seemed enterprise—what wonder that I chose any thing rather than daily labour and perpetual contumely? After all, the fault is in fortune, and the world, not me! Oh! Lucy, had I but been born in your sphere; had I but possessed the claim to merit you, what would I not have done, and dared, and conquered for your sake!"
Such, or similar to these, were the thoughts of Clifford during the interval between his resolution of seeing Lucy, and the time of effecting it. The thoughts were of no pleasing, though of an exciting, nature; nor were they greatly soothed by the ingenious occupation of cheating himself into the belief, that if he was a highwayman, it was altogether the fault of the highways.
