DEAR reader, before bidding adieu to San Francisco, let your one-legged friend introduce you to a noble citizen of that cosmopolitan city, whom, for the sake of a name, shall be styled Dr. Charles Rowell of Kearny street.

Let us call this chapter an imaginary sketch of what might be, what has been, and what will be. Let us suppose your friend John Smith on a crutch to be only mortal: let us suppose him, after all, an ordinary object for—

as well as subject to—

let us suppose him a human being who eats, drinks—yes, drinks!—sleeps, and indulges in other like amusements, and let us suppose him susceptible of suffering, when the means of these enjoyments are, by any chance, temporarily withheld. Let us even suppose that he may be “broke,” sick, and “in a strange land,” all at once. Let us suppose that the “Panama Fever,” which is “no respecter of persons” may lay hold of him on any proper occasion, and let us suppose that poverty which is another “no-respecter-of-persons,” may happen to pay him a friendly visit about the same time. Let us suppose both visitors going hand in hand and calling on John Smith at the same time at his lodging-house in San Francisco.

In asking the reader to assume all this, I do not positively assert that such things did actually happen to John Smith himself, in this connection, but I can testify to the substantial truth of what I am about to relate, and it is no harm to make use of Mr. Smith as an actor.

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?”

“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?”

“Yes, I only landed here a week or two ago. I have not felt quite well since my arrival, and since I fell out of a boat in the harbor the other day and got wet, I have felt worse.”

After some discussing of symptoms, the Doctor said:

“You have what is called Panama Fever. But that’s nothing. Where did you lose your leg?”

“In the army.”

“Well, it is not necessary for you to go to the hospital. It would be a hard place for you to go to, any how, and I cannot allow it. Do not be discouraged. It is nothing here for new-comers to find themselves pecuniarily reduced. Such things happen every day. A great many persons are arriving here now, and many of them come with but little spare means. As numbers do not get into business so soon as they hope, the result is very natural. Now, as for yourself, if you suppose that I, who can easily cure you in a short time, would sit here with my arms folded, smoking my pipe, and see you go into the hospital for want of treatment, and that, too, after you have lost a limb in the service of your country, I must say that it speaks poorly for your discernment of human character. I should——”

“But I am almost without means, and——”

“Well, suppose you are? I am not. You shall not go into the hospital; you shall accept medicine from me; you shall also allow me to see that you want for nothing in the way of living till you are well and succeed in getting into business.”

“But, Doctor, it would not be right for me to——”

“Excuse me one moment,” interrupted the Doctor, rising and going into another room.

When, after a brief absence, he returned, it was with several small packages of medicines in his hand with “directions” pasted on them.

“Take these with you to your lodging-house, and come in and see me to-morrow.”

“But how can I, consistently——”

“Come, now, after I have prepared the medicines for your particular case, you would not surely refuse them, and thus render them useless.”

“Very well, Doctor, I will take them; but remember that I do not accept them gratuitously. That, however, does not lessen your kindness in offering them. I will accept treatment at present, but it must be with the understanding that I am to pay you as soon as I——”

“Have more money than I have,” interrupted the Doctor.

On arriving at his lodging-house, and entering his room, the owner of the packages began to examine them. One was a small vial with a brandy-colored liquid in it, and a label on instructing the patient to indulge in a certain number of drops at certain intervals. Another was a small, round paper box, which rattled in such a way as to entirely preclude the idea of its containing any thing else than pills. A label on this box suggested to the afflicted the expedience of enveloping one of them in his stomach each evening about bed-time.

A third box, however, was a puzzle. It was like the second in size, was heavier, did not rattle, and bore the following astounding directions:

What could this mean? How should the patient know what rules to observe in the use of this box of “medicine,” limited as was his knowledge of the art of Esculapius? Still, it would do no harm to open the box and see what manner of medicine it contained.

This proceeding being carried out, developed the fact that it contained several hard, shiny, yellowish, metallic, button-shaped “pills,” wrapped in paper, each containing the following strange inscription: