the credit of the house
should be suspected, and his deficiencies create a smile of scorn in the
mouth of his red-haired antagonist, when they happened to meet going
their rounds. As yet, no actual collision had taken place between
either the principals or the subordinates of the hostile factions; but
it was fated that this state of quiescence should no longer remain.

Homer has sung the battles of gods, demigods, and heroes; Milton the
strife of angels. Swift has been great in his Battle of the Books; but
I am not aware that the battle of the vials has as yet been sung; and it
requires a greater genius than was to be found in those who portrayed
the conflicts of heroes, demigods, gods, angels, or books, to do
adequate justice to the mortal strife which took place between the
lotions, potions, draughts, pills, and embrocations. I must tell the
story as well as I can, leaving it as an outline for a future epic.

Burning with all the hate which infuriated the breasts of the two houses
of Capulet and Montagu, hate each day increasing from years of "biting
thumbs" at each other, and yet no excuse presenting itself for an
affray, Timothy Oldmixon--for on such an occasion it would be a sin to
omit his whole designation--Timothy Oldmixon, I say, burning with hate
and eager with haste, turning a corner of the street with his basket
well filled with medicines hanging on his left arm, encountered, equally
eager in his haste, and equally burning in his hate, the red-haired
Mercury of Mr Ebenezer Pleggit. Great was the concussion of the
opposing baskets, dire was the crash of many of the vials, and dreadful
was the mingled odour of the abominations which escaped, and poured
through the wicker interstices. Two ladies from Billingsgate, who were
near, indulging their rhetorical powers, stopped short. Two tom-cats,
who were on an adjacent roof, just fixing their eyes of enmity, and
about to fix their claws, turned their eyes to the scene below. Two
political antagonists stopped their noisy arguments. Two dustmen ceased
to ring their bells; and two little urchins eating cherries from the
crowns of their hats, lost sight of their fruit, and stood aghast with
fear. They met, and met with such violence, that they each rebounded
many paces; but like stalwart knights, each kept his basket and his
feet. A few seconds to recover breath; one withering, fiery look from
Timothy, returned by his antagonist, one flash of the memory in e