Von Gundling was a scholar and of good family, and he was chosen by the King as a companion for his few leisure hours, which he desired to turn to instruction and amusement combined. But the Baron was a pedantic fool, inflated with the most absurd pride, and addicted to hard drinking and filthiness, like any Silenus. The King loaded him with ridiculous titles, and he walked about in a dress that must have made him look like our burlesque King Arthur, in ‘Tom Thumb,’ or Justice Midas, in O’Hara’s operetta. It must have been pitiable to see a man of learning submit to any indignity at the hands of King and nobles. He would embrace a dressed-up monkey presented by a prince, as his son; and he took as a mark of favour, his being sent-for to the palace in a sedan-chair, the bottom of which, as previously contrived, fell out by the way, and the bearers of which had orders to push on and keep their passenger walking. He was seldom absent from the private evening parties of the King, where six or eight persons only were present; where beer and pipes were the refreshments which stood before each guest,--no servant being admitted; and where sometimes very serious business was transacted. Gundling died in 1731; his body may be said to have been pelted by epigrammatic epitaphs, but as it was carried to the grave in a wine-cask, long before prepared for the occasion, the clergy refused to bury it with any but maimed rites. As pedantic and degraded a fool as Von Gundling, and at the same court, was a certain diminutive Doctor Bartholdi, whose buffoonery the King once rewarded by presenting him with a peruke which reached to his feet. But Bartholdi was for ever quarrelling with his patron or with the government, and he ended his days in prison. Nor were these the only persons who played the fool, without professing it, at the Prussian court. Among the latter, and they were all more or less scholars, was Kornemann, who had not wit enough to escape marrying a sham countess. A second was Von Hackmann, who was rogue as well as scholar and buffoon, and robbed the King who sheltered him at court. He fled to Vienna, changed and re-changed his religion, returned to Prussia, was whipped by the hangman, and died in misery. David Fassmann, a writer of considerable merit, was another of those buffoon-philosophers whom Frederick William distinguished as his “Learned Fools.” Fassmann held various offices at court, where his sufferings were as great as his absurd dignities, in both of which the monarch found opportunity for laughter. For losing a key entrusted to him by Frederick, Fassmann was condemned to carry a heavy wooden one, an ell long, round his neck for several days. On various occasions, these learned fools were excited against each other by noble persons, who found mirth in so doing. Then would they fly at each other; and Flögel describes one with a pair of tongs thrusting a burning coal in