“For three years I was what you are pleased to call in your article on the ‘Sunday Screw’ a Post-Office Pariah, at an office in a most ‘corresponding’ town; my Sunday duties were as follows:—at four I rose, sorted my letters and newspapers, delivered them to the messengers, sorted and stamped (both sides) the letters for the cross-country mails, swept out and dusted the place, then I went to my room again, had a nap, rose, washed, and dressed in my best; I came down to breakfast at eight, took a walk, till Church time, and amused myself till five in the afternoon, when I attended at the office and received letters till half-past six. “I usually attended divine service; at eight I sorted and stamped the letters and dispatched the mails; at nine I had done my work; all this I did myself and never dreamed of being assisted. The rush of business is now, I understand, so great on the arrival of the Saturday afternoon mails, that every assistant and Post-Office clerk will wish Lord Ashley safely imprisoned in the Whited Sepulchres. “Your, very obediently, “EX-PARIAH.” Judging from the tone in which the earnest remonstrances from all kinds of people that pile our tables are couched, we fear that, during the last few Sundays, the bulk of the disappointed public in the provinces has benefited very little by the change in a moral point of view. Vexation has, we fear, taken the place of that religious, calm, and beneficent state of mind in which the Sabbath ought to be passed. The object, therefore, of the promoters of the measure—increased veneration for the first day of the week—has failed; for of course their whole and sole object in the affair has been the furtherance of the cause of religion, and not a desire to get quits with Mr. Rowland Hill for the calm, manly, triumphant manner in which he caused truth to vanquish them in the recent agitation on the same question. DUST; OR UGLINESS REDEEMED. On a murky morning in November, wind north-east, a poor old woman with a wooden leg was seen struggling against the fitful gusts of the bitter breeze, along a stony zigzag road full of deep and irregular cart-ruts. Her ragged petticoat was blue, and so was her wretched nose. A stick was in her left hand, which assisted her to dig and hobble her way along; and in her other hand, supported also beneath her withered arm, was a large rusty iron sieve. Dust and fine ashes filled up all the wrinkles in her face; and of these there were a prodigious number, for she was eighty-three years old. Her name was Peg Dotting.