A stroke of fancy—­especially to a heavy man—­is sometimes as discomposing as a stroke of paralysis.  Our friend of the Athenaeum is not to be carried away by fancy, cost free:  his imaginative watch at the Palace—­for who can doubt that for six hours per diem he is in Buckingham nursery?—­has led him into the perpetration of various eccentricities which, when we reflect upon the fortune he must have hoarded, and the innate selfishness of our common nature, may possibly end in a commission of lunacy.  As juries are now-a-days brought together (especially as Chartists abound), excessive loyalty may be returned—­confirmed insanity.  It is, however, our duty as good citizens and fellow-journalists to protest, in advance, against any such verdict; declaring that whatever may be adduced by the unreflecting persons in daily intercourse with the editor—­that grave and learned scribe is in the enjoyment—­of all the sense originally vouchsafed to him.  We know the stories that are in the most unfeeling manner told to the disadvantage of the learned and inoffensive gentleman; we know them, and shall not shrink from meeting them.

It is said that for one hour a day “at least” since the birth of the Prince the unfortunate gentleman has been invariably occupied folding and refolding a copy of the Athenaeum—­now airing it and smoothing it down—­now unfolding and now folding it up again.  Well, What of this?  The truth is, our poor friend has only been “taking his turn,” arranging “in fancy” the diaper of the royal nursery.  That he should have selected a copy of the Athenaeum as a type of the swaddling cloth bespeaks in our mind the presence of great judgment.  It is madness with very considerable method.

A printer’s devil—­sent either for copy or a proof—­deposes that our friend seized him, and laying him in his lap, insisted upon feeding him with his goose-quill, at the same time dipping that noisome instrument in his ink-bottle.  The said devil declares that with all his experience of the various qualities of various inks used by gentlemen upon town, he never met with ink at once so muddy and so sour as the ink of the Athenaeum.  We do not deny the statement of the devil as to what he calls the assault committed upon him; but the fact is, the editor was not in his own study, but was “taking his turn” at the pap-spoon of the Duke of CORNWALL!

Betty, the editor’s housemaid, has given warning, declaring that she cannot live with any gentleman who insists upon taking her in his arms, and tossing her up and down as if she was no more than a baby; at the same time making a chirruping noise with his mouth, and calling her “poppet” and “chickabiddy.”  Well, we allow all this, and boldly ask, What of it?  We grant the “poppet;” we concede the “chickabiddy;” and then sternly inquire if an excess of loyalty is to impugn the reason of the most ratiocinative editor?  Does not the thing speak for itself?  If BETTY were not a fool, she would know that her master—­good, regular man!—­meant nothing more than, under the auspices of Mrs. LILLY, to dandle the Duke of CORNWALL.