It is true that the artist, like the prophet, is often "not without honour save in his own country and in his own house." The saying happily does not apply to Punch and his contributors. When Richard Doyle died in 1883, more than thirty years had elapsed since he severed his connexion with the paper, but Punch had never forgotten the old comrade who had designed his cover, and had been equally at home among the imps of Elfland and the swells and snobs of society:—
Turning o'er his own past pages,
Punch, with tearful smile, can trace
That fine talent's various stages,
Caustic satire, gentle grace,
Feats and freaks of Cockney funny—
Brown, and Jones, and Robinson;
And, huge hive of Humour's honey,
Quaint quintessence of rich fun,
Coming fresh as June-breeze briary