midnight
I have since pondered much on this matter , and have figured to myself what may be the fate of our current literature , when retrieved piecemeal by future antiquaries , from among the rubbish of ages . What a Magnus Apollo , for instance , will Moore become among sober divines and dusty schoolmen ! Even his festive and amatory songs , which are now the mere quickeners of our social moments , or the delights of our drawing-rooms , will then become matters of laborious research and painful collation . How many a grave professor will then waste his midnight oil , or worry his brain through a long morning , endeavouring to restore the pure text , or illustrate the biographical hints of `` Come tell me , says Rosa , as kissing and kissed ; '' and how many an arid old book-worm , like the worthy little parson , will give up in despair , after vainly striving to fill up some fatal hiatus in `` Fanny of Timmol ! '' -LSB- Illustration : `` Come , tell me , says Rosa , as kissing and kissed '' -RSB- Nor is it merely such exquisite authors as Moore that are doomed to consume the oil of future antiquaries . Many a poor scribbler , who is now apparently sent to oblivion by pastry-cooks and cheesemongers , will then rise again in fragments , and flourish in learned immortality . After all , thought I , time is not such an invariable destroyer as he is represented .