Such, however, are not my ideas of an angel. As we cannot know, positively, what shape we are to assume after leaving the scenes of our present existence, I have selected my _beau ideal_ of an angel from among the sons of men. The angel I shall describe has a handsome, manly, noble, genial, smiling face; the calm gray eyes twinkle with merriment and good nature; a heavy black beard flows from the lower half of the countenance; the brow is one of the intelligent order, the hair is dark; the figure is full and strong, and dressed—not in a flowing white robe—but in black pantaloons, vest and frock-coat, actually made by a corporeal tailor. For the latter article of clothing, while the owner lounges easily in his neat office, during hours of leisure, might be substituted a dressing-gown. At such times, too, place a common, brierwood pipe in the hand, and the figure of my angel is complete. Such was Doctor Rowell, whose image, but poorly portrayed here, may well supersede the bright one of the winged angel in the fancy of John Smith. John Smith being in San Francisco; without employment; attacked with a return of Panama Fever contracted on the Isthmus; suffering a natural depression of spirits; withal, in “reduced circumstances;” and being of too delicate a nature to apply to friends,—although he had some there who would have rushed to his assistance with a relish—came to the melancholy conclusion that the best thing he could do, sad as it was, was to enter the City Hospital for—say—an indefinite period. With this view, he, languid, pale and emaciated, walked into the office of a physician—walked into the same office on a crutch—to ask for information as to the measures to be resorted to in order to gain admittance to the City Hospital. This physician chanced to be the man whom we style Dr. Charlie Rowell. This was the angel, who, unlike the popular angel with robe and wings, wore a common black suit, a smile, a merry twinkle of the eye, and carried a pipe in his hand, at which he took occasional deliberate whiffs. “Sit down,” he said to the one-legged young man. The latter seated himself on a sofa. “You are the Doctor?” “That’s what they call me,” answered the physician, cheerfully. Then he took a calm whiff of that pipe, and deliberately sat down in a rocking-chair. Smith would have remarked that the weather was fine, but he remembered that the weather is always pleasant in San Francisco. So, he switched off on an other subject—_the_ subject—and said: “Doctor, I have simply come in to ask for a little information. I am a stranger here, and I suppose you can tell me what I desire to know.” “What is that?” “I wish information as to the means of gaining admittance to the City Hospital.” “Why do you want to go to the hospital?” “Because, I am quite unwell, have no immediate business prospects, and am nearly broke.” “What seems to be the matter with you?” “Something like ague.” “Have you come through Panama lately?”