looking lad that, Mr Cophagus," an acquaintance would say. "Where did
you get him--who is his father?"

"Father!" Mr Cophagus would reply, when they had gained the
back parlour, but I could overhear him, "father, um--can't
tell--love--concealment--child born--foundling hospital--put out--and so
on."

This was constantly occurring, and the constant occurrence made me
often reflect upon my condition, which otherwise I might, from the happy
and even tenor of my life, have forgotten. When I retired to my bed I
would revolve in my mind all that I had gained from the governors of the
hospital relative to myself.--The paper found in the basket had been
given to me. I was born in wedlock--at least, so said that paper. The
sum left with me also proved that my parents could not, at my birth,
have been paupers. The very peculiar circumstances attending my case,
only made me more anxious to know my parentage. I was now old enough to
be aware of the value of birth, and I was also just entering the age of
romance, and many were the strange and absurd reveries in which I
indulged. At one time I would cherish the idea that I was of a noble, if
not princely birth, and frame reasons for concealment. At others--but it
is useless to repeat the absurdities and castle buildings which were
generated in my brain from mystery. My airy fabrics would at last
disappear, and leave me in all the misery of doubt and abandoned hope.
Mr Cophagus, when the question was sometimes put to him, would say,
"Good boy--very good boy--don't want a father." But he was wrong, I did
want a father; and every day the want became more pressing, and I found
myself continually repeating the question, "_Who is my father?_"