On taking up a London paper this morning, I found my name given at full length in an advertisement of Cawthorn’s as author of a poem he has just republished, entitled ‘The Lay of a Scottish Fiddle.’ As I wish to be answerable for no sins but my own, I would take it as a particular favour if you would contradict it in your next advertisement of the ‘Sketch Book.’ The work in question was written by a Mr. Paulding.* What particularly annoys me is that the poem is a burlesque on the writings of Sir Walter Scott, for whom I have so perfect an esteem and affection, and it contains political and national reflections of a different nature from those I entertain.
