Chamberss Edinburgh Journal, No. 430 | Page 5

water,
and air be forced in under a given compression at one end, and be made
to pass along to the other, it may thereby, if the cooler be sufficiently
extensive, be robbed of all its heat of compression; and if the apparatus
is so arranged, as it easily may be, that at every stroke of the pump
forcing in air at one end of the pipe, an equivalent quantity of the
cooled compressed air escape from under a loaded valve at the other,
there will be an intermittent stream of cooled air produced thereby, of
60 degrees Fahrenheit, in an atmosphere of 90 degrees, which may be
led away in a pipe to the room desired to be cooled.'
The only difficulty to be encountered consists in the erection and
working of machinery. There can be little fear on this score. We have
no doubt that any London engine-maker would hit off the whole
scheme of an air-cooling machine in half an hour. What is wanted is a
forcing-pump wrought by a one horse or two bullock-power. This
being erected and wrought outside of a dwelling, the air will be forced
into a convolution of pipe passing through a tank of water, like the
worm of a still, and will issue by a check-valve at every stroke of the

piston into the apartments to be cooled. Properly arranged, and with a
suitable supply of water trickling through the tank, air at 90 degrees
will be reduced to 60 degrees or thereabouts, which is the temperature
of ordinary sitting-rooms in England. What, it may be asked, will be
the expense of such an apparatus for cooling the air of a dwelling-house?
We are informed that it will not be greater than that usually paid for
heating with fires in this country; and if so, the expense cannot be
considered a serious obstacle to the use of the apparatus. In the case of
barracks for soldiers, hospitals, and other public establishments, the
process will prove of such important service, that the cost, even if
greater than it is likely to be, should present no obstacle to its
application.

THE CHURCH OF THE CUP OF COLD WATER.
One beautiful evening, in the year 1815, the parish priest of San Pietro,
a village a few miles distant from Sevilla, returned much fatigued to his
little cottage, where he found his aged housekeeper, the Señora
Margarita, watching for him. Notwithstanding that one is well
accustomed to the sight of poverty in Spain, it was impossible to help
being struck by the utter destitution which appeared in the house of the
good priest; the more so, as every imaginable contrivance had been
resorted to, to hide the nakedness of the walls, and the shabbiness of
the furniture. Margarita had prepared for her master's supper a rather
small dish of olla-podriga, which consisted, to say the truth, of the
remains of the dinner, seasoned and disguised with great skill, and with
the addition of some sauce, and a name. As she placed the savoury dish
upon the table, the priest said: 'We should thank God for this good
supper, Margarita; this olla-podriga makes one's mouth water. My
friend, you ought to be grateful for finding so good a supper at the
house of your host!' At the word host, Margarita raised her eyes, and
saw a stranger, who had followed her master. Her countenance changed,
and she looked annoyed. She glanced indignantly first at the unknown,
and then at the priest, who, looking down, said in a low voice, and with
the timidity of a child: 'What is enough for two, is always enough for
three; and surely you would not wish that I should allow a Christian to

die of hunger? He has not tasted food for two days.'
'A Christian! He is more like a brigand!' and Margarita left the room
murmuring loudly enough to be heard.
Meanwhile, the unwelcome guest had remained standing at the door.
He was a man of great height, half-dressed in rags, and covered with
mud; while his black hair, piercing eyes, and carbine, gave him an
appearance which, though hardly prepossessing, was certainly
interesting. 'Must I go?' said he.
The priest replied with an emphatic gesture: 'Those whom I bring under
my roof are never driven forth, and are never unwelcome. Put down
your carbine. Let us say grace, and go to table.'
'I never leave my carbine, for, as the Castilian proverb says, "Two
friends are one." My carbine is my best friend; and I always keep it
beside me. Although you allow me to come into your house, and do not
oblige me to leave it until I wish to do so, there are others who would
think nothing of hauling me out, and, perhaps, with my