BILL SPINK, THE COBBLER
During the past few weeks I have received from friends acquired in the days of my boyhood and early manhood letters which have awakened within me a train of memories—both joyful and sorrowful—respecting my friends and acquaintances in the auld lang syne. That must be my apology for devoting this week’s chapter of my “Recollections” to a brief notice of several of these local worthies. Of Bill Spink, the statesman-cobbler, I have previously made mention. Spink was born in the house in West-lane (now occupied as a club) wherein Mr James Lund, of Malsis Hall, first saw the light. He was a queer chap in his way was Spink. He belonged to what I may call the Peculiar political party which also claimed as members “Little” Barnes, James Leach, Theophilus Hayes, Joseph Fieldhouse, and your humble servant; and it was in his little cobbler’s shop that the deliberations of our party were carried on. Spink took the Tory side in national politics, and frequently attended political meetings up and down the district. On one occasion, I well remember, Spink was sent by the Tory party to a Liberal meeting at Silsden. Sir Mathew Wilson was one of the speakers, and he was “tackled” on certain points during his speech by Spink, until the Radical garrison made a raid upon this undesirable invader of their citadel, and ejected him into the street. Spink was severely handled in the process, and it occupied him all his strength—i.e. all that remained—to walk back to Keighley. Spink was a man who must speak his mind, and could not bear to hear the views and principles which he upheld ruthlessly set at nought. He was, at bottom, a good-natured man; indeed, I think I scarcely ever came across a man with a more sympathetic disposition. In any deserving public object, or case of private distress in the town, he was the first to the rescue. Unfortunately, he suffered much from a diseased leg, which was the cause of his death. There was an unpleasant hitch at the funeral. When the party arrived at the Keighley Cemetery, it was found that the grave was too small, and it was some time before the necessary extension could be made. The circumstance of the mourners having to wait was aggravated by a heavy down fall of rain. At last, however, the remains of my old friend were duly consigned to Mother Earth. In his life time I promised Spink that I would write his epitaph, which I now produce:—
Here lie the remains of the friend of the poor,
Inside of his palace without any door.
By man’s inhumanity he was oft made to flit,
But now he’s at home, where he’ll bide for a bit.
He had a large heart that beat in his breast;
Without some sensation he never could rest;
If he saw a mean action he’d cry like a calf;
If he saw a kind deed he’d cry more bi’t half.