It is gratifying to learn that the "Messenger" is still extending the circle of its readers. The wonder is,--supposing that we have some love of country left on this side of the Potomac,--that its patronage is not overflowing. It is the only respectable periodical, I believe, south of that river; and with due encouragement, it might not only become a potent reformer of literary taste, but the vehicle of grave and solid instruction upon subjects deeply interesting to the southern country. That with all our never-ending professions of patriotism, however, there exists a vast deal more of selfishness than public spirit, even in our sunny clime, is a lamentable truth,--nor for one, am I sufficiently sanguine to unite with the editor of the Messenger, in the answer which he gives to his own interrogatory in the following eloquent passage, extracted from the Review of "Conti;"--"How long shall mind succumb to the grossest materiality? How long shall the veriest vermin of the earth who crawl around the altar of Mammon be more esteemed of men, than they, the gifted ministers to those exalted emotions which link us with the mysteries of Heaven? To our own query we may venture a reply. Not long--not long will such rank injustice be committed, or permitted. A spirit is already abroad at war with it. And in every billow of the unceasing sea of change--and in every breath, however gentle, of the wide atmosphere of revolution encircling us, is that spirit steadily, yet irresistibly at work." Alas! for this sea of change and this atmosphere of revolution which are fast surrounding us! For my part, I fear that all other distinctions but _wealth_ and _power_ are about to be annihilated. What do we behold indeed in society, but one universal struggle to acquire both? Moral and intellectual worth are but lightly esteemed in comparison with the possession of that sordid dross, which every brainless upstart or every corrupt adventurer may acquire. Though the Muses occupy a small space in the present number of the Messenger, their claims are not to be disregarded. Miss Draper's "Lay of Ruin," and Mr. Flint's "Living Alone" have both decided merit. The "Ballad" is written by one who can evidently write much better, if he chooses; and there is a deep poetical inspiration about Mr. Poe's "Valley Nis," which would be more attractive if his verses were smoother, and his subject matter less obscure and unintelligible. Mr. Poe will not consent to abide with ordinary mortals. Upon the whole, the last number of the Messenger is one of decided merit. X. Y. Z. From the Richmond Compiler.