I have heard a good deal said about angels: but as no one now living can prove to the satisfaction of the public that he ever saw one, the personal appearance and general traits of their characters can be but matters of conjecture.
We are inclined, however, when speaking or thinking of an angel, to fancy it a lovely creature—whether male or female, I cannot say—of fair complexion, blue eyes and light curling hair, and clothed in a long white robe, with the hue of the “driven snow”—the handsome toes just peeping out from beneath the lower folds. In addition to this, we fancy a pair of gentle wings protruding from the shoulder blades. These, however useful, when the angel happens to be in a hurry, are rather calculated to detract from the handsome outline of a fine figure, in case the fashionable clothing of the present day should be used, instead of the robe. I believe that every reader will readily comprehend me, without my going to the trouble to say that the wings alluded to, if covered with a neat dress coat, (or other fashionable garment,) would give the wearer a lamentable appearance of being hump-backed.
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?”