With the learned Professor, the cartoonist not only produces a composite portrait of all the _Herren Professoren_, but also drives home the point of his amazing pencil into what is perhaps the most instructive lesson of this monstrous war--the perversion to evil uses of powers originally designed, nourished, and expanded to benefit mankind. When the _Furor Teutonicus_ has finally expended itself, we do not envy the feelings of the illustrious chemists who perfected poison gas and liquid fire! Will they, when their hour comes, find it easy to obey the poet's injunction, and, wrapping the mantle of their past about them, "lie down to pleasant dreams?" We are assured that these professors have not exhausted their powers of frightfulness. It may be so. This is certain: Such frightfulness will ultimately exhaust them. With this reflection, we may leave them, grist to be ground by the mills of God. HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL. [Illustration: ARCADES AMBO THE PROFESSOR: "I have discovered a new mixture which will blind them in half an hour." SATAN: "You are in very truth my master."] ----------------------------------------------------------------------- "IS IT YOU, MOTHER?" Since the opening of hostilities in the present war the Scottish regiments have given repeated proofs of a valour which adds new lustre to the great traditions of Scottish soldiership. Through all the early operations--on the retreat from Mons and at the battles of the Marne and the Aisne--the Royal Scots Guards, the Scots Greys, the Gordon, the Seaforth and the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, the King's Own Scottish Borderers gained many fresh laurels by their heroism and undaunted spirit. The London Scottish Territorials, too, have shown a prowess as signal as that of the Scots of the Regular Army; while the mettle of men of Scottish descent has made glorious contribution in France and elsewhere to the fine records of the Overseas armies. It is the inevitable corollary that death should levy a heavy toll on Scottish soldiers in the field. Thousands of kilted youth have suffered the fate which Raemaekers depicts in the accompanying cartoon. It is not, of course, only the young Scot whose thought turns in the moment of death to the hearth of his home with vivid memories of his mother. But the word "home" and all that the word connotes often makes a more urgent appeal to the Scot abroad than to the man of another nationality. There is significance in the fact that, far as the Scots are wont to wander over the world's surface, they should, under every sky and in every turning fortune, treasure as a national anthem the song which has the refrain:-- "For it's hame, an' it's hame, fain wad I be, O! it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!"