This boat was 72 feet in length, and her greatest height was 12 feet, while the greatest breadth was 8 feet, tapering off to points at the end. Capt. Murray Sueter in his book on submarines gives these and other particulars of the vessel. At either end the boat had a cabin, the air in which remained good for about three hours, and in the middle of the boat was a large paddlewheel rotated by clockwork mechanism, which, it was claimed, would run for eight hours when once wound up. The iron tips at the ends of the vessel were intended for ramming, and the inventor was confident he could sink the biggest English ship afloat by crushing in her hull under water. The boat was duly launched, but on trial of the machinery being made the paddlewheel, though it revolved in air, would not move in the water, the machinery being not powerful enough. This, says Capt. Sueter, was apparently the only reason for de Son's failure, for his principles were distinctly sound, and he was certainly the first inventor of the mechanically propelled semi-submarine boat. After her failure de Son exhibited her for a trifle to any casual passer-by. THE TORPEDO. By Katharine Drayton Mayrant Simons, Jr. Death, our mother, gave us her three gray gifts from the sea-- (Cherish your birthright, Brothers!)--speed, cunning, and certainty. And mailèd Mars, he blest us--but his blessing was most to me! For the swift gun sometimes falters, sparing the foe afar, And the hid mine wastes destruction on the drag's decoying spar, But I am the wrath of the Furies' path--of the war god's avatar! Mine is the brain of thinking steel man made to match his own, To guard and guide the death disks packed in the war head's hammered cone, To drive the cask of the thin air flask as the gyroscope has shown. My brother, the gun, shrieks o'er the sea his curse from the covered deck, My brother, the mine, lies sullen-dumb, agape for the dreadnought's wreck, I glide on the breath of my mother, Death, and my goal is my only check! More strong than the strength of armored ships is the firing pin's frail spark, More sure than the helm of the mighty fleet are my rudders to their mark, The faint foam fades from the bright screw blades--and I strike from the under dark! Death, our mother, gave us her three gray gifts from the sea-- (Cherish your birthright, Brothers!)--speed, cunning, and certainty. And mailèd Mars, he blest us--but his blessing was most to me! "God Punish England, Brother" A New Hymn of Germany's Gospel of Hatred [From Public Opinion, London, Feb. 5, 1915.] The amazing outburst of hatred against England in Germany is responsible for a new form of greeting which has displaced the conventional formulas of salutation and farewell: "God punish England!" ("Gott strafe England!") is the form of address, to which the reply is: "May God punish her!" ("Gott mög'es strafen!")