If we do not err in the conjecture, our correspondent "NUGATOR" has frequently charmed the public by his writings both in prose and verse. But whether we are right or wrong, we can assure him that he will always find a ready demand for his "wares" at our "emporium." According to his request we have handed the inscription to a classical friend, whose elegant translation we also subjoin with the original. For the Southern Literary Messenger. Mr. White,--As I find you are about to establish a sort of Literary Emporium, to which every man, no matter how trifling his capital of ideas, may send his productions, I have resolved to transmit to you my small wares and merchandise. The relation I shall bear to your other correspondents, will be that, which the vender of trifles in a town bears to the wealthy merchant; and, therefore, I shall assume an appropriate title, and under this humble signature, shall consider myself at liberty to offer you any thing I may have, without order or method, and just as I can lay my hands upon it.--My head is somewhat like Dominie Sampson's, which as well as I remember, resembled a pawnbroker's shop where a goodly store of things were piled together, but in such confusion, he could never find what he wanted. When I get hold of any thing, however, I will send it to you, and if it be worth nothing, why just "martyr it by a pipe." NUGATOR. "Here lived, so might it seem to Fancy's eye, The lordly Barons of _our_ feudal day; On every side, lo! grandeur's relics lie Scatter'd in ruin o'er their coffin'd clay.-- How vain for man, short-sighted man, to say What course the tide of human things shall take! How little dream'd the Founder, that decay So soon his splendid edifice should shake, And of its high pretence, a cruel mock'ry make."