WHITSUNTIDE.  
This is the only ancient religious festival that has become a popular one since the Reformation, through the addition of a modern circumstance. Clubs, or Friendly Societies, have substituted for the old church ceremonies, a strong motive to assemble in the early days of this week as their anniversary; and the time of the year being so delightful, this holiday has, in fact, become more than any other, what May-day was to the people. Both men and women have their Friendly Societies, in which every member pays a certain weekly or monthly sum, and on occasions of sickness or misfortune, claims a weekly stipend, or a sum of money to bury their dead. These Societies were very prudential things, especially before the institution of Savings’ Banks, which are still better; and in the vicinity of towns have become most important resources for the working class, and especially servants.[445] In the country, Friendly Societies still do, and will probably long remain, because Savings’ Banks are not easily introduced there. In a Savings’ Bank, whatever a person deposits he receives with interest. It is safe, and may be demanded any time. On the other hand, a man may contribute for years to a club, and not want a penny for himself on account of sickness, and at his death, with the exception of a fixed sum to bury him, and one for his widow, all his fund goes from his family; or, what is worse, he may pay for many years, and just when he wants help, he finds the box empty, through the great run upon it by the sickness or accidental disabling of his fellows; or the steward has proved dishonest and has decamped; or he has failed. Many such cases have occurred, especially during the violent changes of the last twenty years. In some particular cases the capital of a dozen Friendly Societies has, by some strange infatuation or artifice, been lodged in the hands of the same man, who has proved bankrupt and ruined them all. These are the drawbacks on Friendly Societies; and yet with these, they were better than nothing for the poor, and some of them have, in many cases, been remedied by the members sharing their fund amongst them once every seven years. They were, and are often, the poor man’s sole resource and refuge against the horror of falling on the parish, and have helped him through his time of affliction without burthening his mind with a sense of shame and dependence.
Well then may they come together on one certain day or days throughout the country, to hold a feast of fellowship and mutual congratulation in a common hope. Their wealthier neighbours have encouraged them in this bond of union and mutual help, and have become honorary members of their clubs. It is a friendly and christian act. Accordingly, on Whit-Monday, the sunshiny morning has broke over the villages of England with its most holiday smile. All work has ceased. There has been, at first, a Sabbath stillness, a repose, a display of holiday costume. Groups of men have met here and there in the streets in quiet talk; the children have begun to play, and make their shrill voices heard through the hamlets. There have been stalls of sweetmeats and toys set out in the little market-place on the green, by the shady walk, or under the well-known tree. Suddenly the bells have[446] struck up a joyous peal, and a spirit of delight is diffused all over the rustic place, ay, all over every rustic place in merry England. Forth comes streaming the village procession of hardy men or comely women, all arrayed in their best, gay with ribbons and scarfs, a band of music sounding before them; their broad banner of peace and union flapping over their heads, and their wands shouldered like the spears of an ancient army, or used as walking-staves. Forth they stream from their club-room at the village alehouse.
’T is merry Whitsuntide, and merrily
Holiday goes in hamlet and green field;
Nature and men seem joined, for once, to try
The strength of Care, and force the carle to yield:
Summer abroad holds flow’ry revelry:
For revelry, the village bells are pealed;
The season’s self seems made for rural pleasure,
And rural joy flows with o’erflowing measure.
Go where you will through England’s happy valleys,
Deep grows the grass, flowers bask, and wild bees hum;
And ever and anon, with joyous sallies,
Shouting, and music, and the busy drum
Tell you afar where mirth her rustics rallies,
In dusty sports, or ’mid the song and hum
Of Royal Oak, or bowling-green enclosure,
With bower and bench for smoking and composure.
May’s jolly dance is past, and hanging high,
Her garlands swing and wither in the sun;
And now abroad gay posied banners fly,
Followed by peaceful troops, and boys that run
To see their sires go marching solemnly,
Shouldering their wands; and youths with ribbons won
From fond fair hands, that yielded them with pride,
And proudly worn this merry Whitsuntide.
And then succeeds a lovelier sight,—the dames,
Wives, mothers, and arch sigh-awakening lasses,
Filling each gazing wight with wounds and flames,
Yet looking each demurely as she passes,
With flower-tipped wand, and bloom that flower outshames;
And, in the van of these sweet, happy faces
Marches the priest, whose sermon says, “be merry,”
The frank, good squire, and sage apothecary.
W. H.
 
Forth stream these happy bands from their club-room, making the procession of the town before they go to church, and then[447] again after church and before going to dinner, for then begins the serious business of feasting, too important to admit of any fresh holiday parade for the rest of the day. Nothing can be more joyously picturesque than this rural holiday. The time of the year—the latter end of May, or early part of June, is itself jubilant. The new leaves are just out in all their tender freshness: the flowers are engoldening the fields, and making odorous the garden: there are sunshine and brightness to gladden this festival of the lowly. In my mind are associated with this time, from the earliest childhood, sunshine, flowers, the sound of bells, and village bands of music. I see the clubs, as they are called, coming down the village; a procession of its rustic population all in their best attire. In front of them comes bearing the great banner, emblazoned with some fitting scene and motto, old Harry Lomax the blacksmith, deputed to that office for the brawny strength of his arms, and yet, if the wind be stirring, evidently staggering under its weight, and finding enough to do to hold it aloft. There it floats its length of blue and yellow, and on its top nods the huge posy of peonies, laburnum flowers, and lilachs, which our own garden has duly furnished. Then comes sounding the band of drums, bassoons, hautboys, flutes, and clarionets: then the honorary members—the freeholders of ............