me that there is no want of work. So far you will be rejoiced with me, and your words, Do not fear you can want employment! were verified the morning after I received your kind letter; but I go on finishing Romney[1] with spirit, and for the relief of variety shall engage in other little works as they arise.
I called on Mr. Evans,[2] who gives small hopes of our Ballads; he says he has sold but fifteen numbers at the most, and that going on would be a certain loss of almost all the expenses. I then proposed to him to take a part with me in publishing them on a smaller scale, which he declined, on account of its being out of his line of business to publish, and a line in which he is determined never to engage, attaching himself wholly to the sale of fine editions of authors and curious books in general. He advises that some publisher should be spoken to who would purchase the copyright: and, so far as I can judge of the nature of publication, no chance is left to one out of the trade. Thus the case stands at present: God send better times! Everybody complains, yet all go on cheerfully and with spirit. The shops in London
