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Rh of the Shakespearean comedy is in the gaily-varied butterfly humour in which it flits from flower to flower, seldom touching the ground of reality. Only in opposition to the realistic comedy of the ancients, and of the French, can anything definite be declared of the Shakespearean comedy. Last night I meditated long as to whether I could not give some positive explanation or clearing up of this infinite, illimitable kind of the comedy of Shakespeare. Thereupon, after long thinking here and there, I fell asleep and dreamed: Dreamed that it was a starry night, and I swam in a small boat on a wide, wide sea, where all kind of barks filled with masks, musicians, and torches gleaming, music sounding, many near or afar, rowed on. There were costumes of all countries and ages, old Greek tunics, medival knightly cloaks, Oriental turbans, shepherd's hats with fluttering ribbons, masks of beasts wild or tame now and then I thought I saw a well-known face, sometimes I heard familiar greetings but all passed quickly by and far away, and the merry music grew softer and fainter, when instead of the gay fiddling I heard near me the mysterious, melancholy tones of hunters' horns from another boat. Sometimes the night-wind bore the strains of both to my ear, and then the mingled melody made a happy harmony. The