"I have no control over my arms now," I replied, drivin my elbows suddenly into the Squire's stomack, which caused that corpulent magistrate to fall vilently off the stage into the fiddlers' box, where he stuck his vener'ble hed into a base drum, and stated "Murder" twice, in a very loud vois. It was late when I got home.  The children and my wife was all abed.  But a candle--a candle made from taller of our own raisin--gleamed in Betsy's room; it gleamed for I!  All was still.  The sweet silver moon was a shinin bright, and the beautiful stars was up to their usual doins!  I felt a sentymental mood so gently ore me stealin, and I pawsed before Betsy's window, and sung, in a kind of op'ratic vois, as follers, impromtoo, to wit: Wake, Bessy, wake, My sweet galoot! Rise up, fair lady,             While I touch my lute! The winder--I regret to say that the winder went up with a vi'lent crash, and a form robed in spotless white exclaimed, "Cum into the house, you old fool.  To-morrer you'll be goin round complainin about your liver!" I sot up a spell by the kitchen fire readin Lewis Napoleon's "Life of Julius Caesar."  What a reckless old cuss he was!  Yit Lewis picturs him in glowin cullers.  Caesar made it lively for the boys in Gaul, didn't he?  He slewd one million of citizens, male and female--Gauls and Gaulusses--and then he sold another million of 'em into slavery.  He continnered this cheerful stile of thing for sum time, when one day he was 'sassinated in Rome by sum high-toned Roman gen'lmen, led on by Mr. Brutus.  When old Bruty inserted his knife into him, Caesar admitted that he was gone up.  His funeral was a great success, the house bein crowded to its utmost capacity.  Ten minutes after the doors were opened, the Ushers had to put up cards on which was prntd, "Standin Room Only." I went to bed at last.  "And so," I said, "thou hast no ear for sweet melody?" A silvery snore was my only answer. BETSY SLEPT. Artemus Ward.       ____________________ ARTEMUS WARD IN WASHINGTON. [The following paper was contributed by Mr. Browne to "Vanity Fair," the New York "Punch," which terminated its career during the late war.  Some of the allusions are, of course, to matters long past; but the old fun and genuine humour of the showman are as enjoyable now as when first written.] Washington, April 17, 1863.    My wife stood before the lookin-glass, a fussin up her hair. "What you doin, Betsy?" I inquired. "Doin up my back hair," she replied. "Betsy," said I, with a stern air, "Betsy, you're too old to think about such frivolities as back hair." "Too old?  Too old?" she screamed, "too old, you bald-heded idiot!  You ain't got hair enuff onto your hed to make a decent wig for a single-brested grasshopper!" The Rebook was severe, but merited.  Hens4th I shall let my wife's back hair alone.  You heard me!