Mr Phineas Cophagus in the street, the former immediately
began to spit as if he had swallowed some of his own vile adulterated
drugs; and in rejoinder, Mr Cophagus immediately raised the cane from
his nose high above his forehead in so threatening an attitude as almost
to warrant the other swearing the peace against him, muttering, "Ugly
puppy--knows nothing--um--patients die--and so on."

It may be well supposed that this spirit of enmity extended through the
lower branches of the rival houses--the assistants and I were at deadly
feud; and this feud was even more deadly between the boys who carried
out the medicines, and whose baskets might, in some measure, have been
looked upon as the rival ensigns of the parties, they themselves
occupying the dangerous and honourable post of standard bearers.

Timothy, although the kindest-hearted fellow in the world, was as good a
hater as Dr Johnson himself could have wished to meet with; and when
sometimes his basket was not so well filled as usual, he would fill up
with empty bottles below, rather than that 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 Montague, 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 a