TOKEN RINGS.

Rings as ‘tokens’ date from very early times. We are told that Clovis, King of the Franks, in the latter part of the fifth century, wishing to marry Clotilde, niece of Gondebauld, King of Burgundy, deputed Aurelianus, in whom he had perfect confidence, to ascertain whether the maiden had any predilection for him. The messenger travelled in very humble guise, and arrived at the castle in Burgundy where Clotilde resided. The princess, however, knew beforehand his mission, and was prepared to receive him. She concealed this knowledge, however, and treated him as an ordinary mendicant, receiving him hospitably, and, according to the custom of those times, even washing his feet. While this operation was being performed, Aurelianus said: ‘Princess, if you will permit me, I will tell you of strange things.’

‘Speak,’ replied Clotilde.

‘Clovis, King of the Franks, has sent me to announce his wish to marry you. Is it your desire that I should ask permission from your father?’

‘What proof can you give me of the truth of your mission?’

‘The ring of my Sovereign, which he entrusted me with for this object.’‘But,’ said Clotilde, ‘I am a Christian, and I cannot marry a pagan. If, however, it is the will of God that I should become the wife of Clovis, I am content.’

Thus saying, she received the ring, and gave Aurelianus her own ring in return, and after some difficulties with Gondebauld were overcome, Aurelianus married Clotilde in the name of King Clovis, by the gift of ‘one sou and one denier,’ as the price of her liberty, according to the custom of that period.

If the old historians are to be credited, this is the earliest instance of a marriage by proxy.

Edward the First, in 1297, presented Margaret, his fourth daughter, with a golden pyx, in which he deposited a ring, the token of his unfailing love. He placed it in her hands with a solemn benediction, when she bade him farewell, preparatory to rejoining her husband at Brussels.

Hardyng, in his ‘Chronicles,’ relates a pretty story of Oswald, King of Northumberland (seventh century), and Kineburg, his consort. A hermit, of extraordinary sanctity, desirous of ascertaining whether any person surpassed himself in purity of life, was, in answer to his meditation, told by revelation ‘that King Oswald was more holy, though he had wedded a wife.’ The pious hermit accordingly repaired to the king, with holy zeal, to be informed concerning his course of life. On which Oswald, in the true spirit of that love and confidence which reposed on the purity and virtue of his beloved wife, referred the hermit to her, bidding him carry to her his ring, with his command that she should entertain him (the hermit) as though he were her own royal spouse. The Queen, who had the greatest veneration for her husband, failed not to obey his instructions, but, while she shared with the holy man the regal repast, showed him that it consisted only of bread and water, no other food being permitted to him; thus exhibiting an example of that self-denial by which purity of life is alone attainable. When night came, the hermit was more surprised than ever when the queen ordered him to be put into a cold-water bath, according to the custom of the King whom he wished to imitate. Gladly, and yet right early in the morning, did the venerable man take leave of the queen; and, having restored to King Oswald his ring, frankly acknowledged that his whole entire life was not so holy as one of the King’s days and nights. I must observe, however, that, with this rigid observance of sobriety and virtue, King Oswald is the first prince of our Saxon rulers who is recorded to have been served in silver dishes. We can easily understand a hermit’s repugnance to bathing of any kind.

Some other instances of rings as tokens are related by mediÆval historians. We are told by Matthew Paris that Pope Innocent, desiring to gain King John over to favour his plans, and knowing that he was covetous, and a diligent seeker after costly jewels, sent him four gold rings adorned with precious stones, in token that the rotundity of the rings signified eternity; ‘therefore your royal discretion may be led by the form of them to pray for a passage from earthly to heavenly, from temporal to eternal things. The number of four, which is a square number, denotes the firmness of mind which is neither depressed in adversity nor elated in prosperity; which will then be fulfilled, when it is based on the four principal virtues, namely—justice, fortitude, prudence, and virtue.... Moreover, the greenness of the emerald denotes faith; the clearness of the sapphire, hope; the redness of the pomegranate denotes charity, and the purity of the topaz, good works.... In the emerald, therefore, you have what to believe; in the sapphire, what to hope for; in the pomegranate, what to love; and in the topaz, what to practise; that you ascend from one virtue to another, until you see the Lord in Zion.’

Henry the Fourth, Emperor of Germany, was cruelly treated by his son, who conspired against him, and forced him to abdicate the throne. The degraded emperor is said to have been reduced by famine to such extremities that he ate the leather of his boots for hunger. He sent his ring and sword as his last token of forgiveness to his rebel son, with the simple and touching message: ‘If thou hadst left me more, I would have sent more to thee.’

Thomas Chester, a writer for the minstrels in the reign of Henry the Sixth, and who is stated to have translated the ‘Erle of Tolouse,’ a metrical romance, relates that an Earl of this house, disguised in pilgrim’s weeds, asked alms of the empress, consort of Diocletian, Emperor of Germany, to whom his secret is known, and who gives him forty florins and a ring. He receives the latter present with the greatest satisfaction, and, although obliged to return home, comforts himself with this reflection:—

Well is me I have thy grace
Of the to hav thys thyng,
If ever I hav grace of the
That any love between us be
This may be a tokenyng.

The empress, on the false accusation of two knights, is thrown into prison. The Earl of Toulouse, disguised as a monk, obtains permission to act as her confessor; the empress, not knowing him in his present disguise, confesses that she once gave a ring to the ‘Erle.’ On this he challenges the two knights, and, of course, overcomes them in combat. On the death of the emperor he marries the empress.

This story reminds us of the lines in ‘Marmion,’ by Sir Walter Scott:—

The fair Queen of France
Sent him a turquoise ring and glove,
And charged him as her knight and love
For her to break a lance:

a fatal gift, as Flodden Field proved.[65]

In the ‘Lays’ of Marie, the Princess Guilliadun, having fallen in love with Sir Eliduc, sends him as tokens a ring and a rich girdle.

In the ‘Lyfe of Ipomydon,’ the manuscript of which is in the Harleian Collection at the British Museum, the queen gives her son a ring-token:—

It befell upon a day,
The queen to her son gan say,
In privitie and in counsail,
‘Thou hast a brother withouten fail,
Privily gotten me upon,
Ere I was wedded to any mon.
But hastily he was done fro me,
I ne wot if he alive be,
And he me sent, this ender (last) year,
A rich ring of gold full clear;
An ever he any brother had,
That I should give it him, he bade;
That where he come, among high or low,
By that ring he should him know.
Than take this ring, my son, of me:
In what country that he be,
Who that knoweth this ilke ring,
He is thy brother without lesing.’

Ipomydon accepts the ring, and promises to spare no pains in searching for its original proprietor, who, after various adventures, is found in the person of Sir Campanys, with whom he has an encounter, during which the latter discovers his mother’s ring on the finger of Ipomydon.

In the romance of ‘Sir Isumbras,’ when he and his wife and child are taken prisoners by the ‘Soudan,’ the lady, before her separation from her husband and child—

———callyd hir lorde to hir agayne,
A rynge was thaire takynnynge.

The mother of Sir Perceval of Galles gives him a ring-token:—

His moder gaffe hym a ryng,
And bad he solde agayne it bryng;
‘Sonne, this salle be oure takynnynge,
For here I salle the byde.’

The knight sets forth on his travels, and soon changes the ring for another:—

Thofe he were of no pryde
Forthirmore ganne he glyde
Tille a chambir ther besyde,
Moo sellys to see;
Riche clothes faude he sprede
A lady slepuned on a bedde
He said, ‘forsothe a tokyne to wedde
Salle thou lefe with mee;’
Ther he kyste that swete thynge,
Of hir fynger he tuke a rynge,
His aweune moder takynnynge
He lefte with that fre.

In the very pretty poem of ‘Lay le Fraine,’ by Marie, the lady of a knight, ‘a proud dame and malicious,’ having twins, consigns the charge of one of them to a confidential servant, to be taken away and left to the mercy of anyone who might find it. At the same time, that the child might be known to have been born of noble parents, she took a rich mantle lined with fur—

And lapped the little maiden therein,
And took a ring of gold fine,
And on her right arm it knit
With a lace of silk in plit.

The child is placed in a hollow ash-tree, near a nunnery, by the maid, and on being discovered by the porter is taken to the abbess, by whom she is reared and becomes an accomplished and beautiful maiden. A rich knight falls in love with her and persuades her to live with him in his castle, to which she repairs, and

With her took she no thing
But her pel, and her ring.

The lord, however, is induced to marry her sister, taking Le Fraine with him to the wedding, who places on her bed in her room the magnificent ‘pel,’ or mantle, by which and the ring she is discovered by her mother.

In the romance of the ‘Seven Wise Masters’ (Cotton MSS.) is a story, ‘The Two Dreams,’ in which a ring displays a prominent feature.

In the ballad of the ‘Lass of Lochroyan’ (‘Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border’) Lord Gregory says:—

‘Gin thou be Annie of Lochroyan
(As I trow thou binna she),
Now tell me some of the love-token
That passed between thee and me.
‘O dinna ye mind, Lord Gregory,
As we sat at the wine,
We changed the rings from our fingers,
And I can show thee thine?
‘O yours was gude and gude enough,
But aye the best was mine;
For yours was of the gude red gowd,
But mine o’ the diamond fine.’

In the ballad of ‘Cospatrick’ (the designation of the Earl of Dunbar in the days of Wallace and Bruce) we have:—

‘He gae to me a gay gowd ring,
And bade me keep it abune a’ thing.’
‘And what did you wi’ the gay gowd ring
I bade you keep abune a’ thing?’
‘I gae them to a ladye gay
I met in greenwood on a day.’

In the ballad of ‘Prince Robert,’

Prince Robert has wedded a gay ladye
He has wedded her with a ring,
Prince Robert has wedded a gay ladye,
But he darna bring her hame.

The Prince is poisoned, and his lady-love arrives just after the funeral, and is told:—

‘Ye’se get nane o’ his gowd, ye’se get nane o’ his gear,
Ye’se get nothing frae me.
Ye’se no get an inch o’ his good braid land,
Though your heart suld burst in three.’

‘I want nane o’ his gowd, I want nane o’ his gear,
I want nae land frae thee:
But I’ll hae the rings that’s on his finger,
For them he did promise to me.’
‘Ye’se no get the rings that’s on his finger,
Ye’se no get them frae me;
Ye’se no get the rings that’s on his finger,
An your heart suld burst in three.’

In the ballad of ‘Broomfield Hill’ a witch-woman says to ‘a lady bright:’

Take ye the rings off your fingers,
Put them on his right hand,
To let him know when he doth wake,
His love was at his command.

The Child of Elle receives from the page of his lady-love, the ‘fayre Emmeline,’ some tokens of her affection to him in her ‘woe-begone’ state:—

And here she sends thee a ring of golde,
The last boone thou mayst have,
And biddes thee weare it for her sake,
When she is layde in grave.

The famous Guy, Earl of Warwick, after marvellous adventures abroad, returns to his own country, and becomes a hermit at Guy’s Cliff, near Warwick Castle. Falling sick, he sends a ring-token to the fair FÉlice. He came to his rocky dwelling,

Like pilgrim poore, and was not knowne;
And there I lived a hermit’s life,
A mile and more out of the towne,
And dayle came to beg my bread
Of Pheliss, att my castle-gate,
Not known unto my loved wiffe,
Who dayle mourned for her mate:
Till, at the last, I fell sore sicke,
Yea, sicke soe sore that I must dye;
I sent to her a ringe of golde,
By which she knew me presentlye.

In the romance of ‘Floire and Blanceflor,’ the young hero, on his way to Babylon, arrives at a bridge, the keeper of which has a brother in the city, to whose hospitality he wishes to recommend Floire, and for that purpose he gives him his ring. ‘Take this ring to him,’ he says, ‘and tell him from me to receive you in his best manner.’ The message was attended with complete success.

King John is said to have made use of a ring to aid his criminal designs upon the beautiful wife of the brave Eustace de Vesci, one of the twenty-five barons appointed to enforce the observance of Magna Charta. The tyrant, hearing that Eustace de Vesci had a very beautiful wife, but far distant from court, and studying how to accomplish his licentious designs towards her, sitting at table with her husband and seeing a ring on his finger, he laid hold of it and told him that he had such another stone, which he resolved to set in gold in that very form. And having thus got the ring, he presently sent it to her in her husband’s name; by that token conjuring her, if ever she expected to see him alive, to come speedily to him. She, therefore, upon sight of the ring, gave credit to the messenger and came with all expedition. But it so happened that her husband, casually riding out, met her on the road, and, marvelling much to see her there, asked what the matter was; and when he understood how they were both deluded he resolved to find a wanton, and put her in apparel to personate his lady.

The King afterwards boasting to the injured husband himself, Eustace had the pleasure to undeceive him.When Richard III. brings his rapid wooing to a conclusion he gives the Lady Anne a ring, saying:—

Look, how this ring encompasseth thy finger,
Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart;
Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.

Passionate words, but too noble for a man both faithless and cruel.

Margaret, eldest daughter of Henry VII., married to James IV. of Scotland, when requiring money, sent to her royal husband, not only letters, but a token, as is seen in the Treasurer’s accounts: ‘June 30 (1504): Given to the Queen to give away, when she sent Master Livesay, Englishman, with a ring in token—18s.’ So we have later: ‘Luke of the wardrobe carried letters, with a ring, to Stirling to the Queen’s grace.’

In 1515, while under the tyranny of the Duke of Albany at Edinburgh, Margaret endeavoured to escape to Blackater, a fortress within a few miles of Berwick. She sent a faithful clerk, Robin Carr, to Lord Dacre, who had proposed her flight, and a ring was to be Carr’s credential to King Henry the Eighth, whom he was to see afterwards. The King, however, did not recognise the token, though it was one that his sister had worn in her girlish days.

In ‘Cymbeline’ (act i. sc. ii.) Imogen gives Posthumus a ring when they part, and he gives her a bracelet in exchange:—

‘———Look here, love;
This diamond was my mother’s; take it, heart;
But keep it till you woo another wife,
When Imogen is dead.’
Posthumus.—‘How! how! another?
You gentle gods give me but this I have,
And sear up my embracements from a next
With bonds of death! Remain thou here,
(Putting on the ring)
While sense can keep it on.’

Yet he afterwards gives it up to Iachimo—upon a false representation, however—to test his wife’s honour:—

———Here, take this too;
It is a basilisk unto my eye,
Kills me to look on’t.

A diamond ring was sent by Henry the Eighth in 1542 to Sir Arthur Plantagenet (Lord Lisle, natural son of Edward the Fourth) in token of forgiveness, and accompanying an order for his release from the Tower, but the unfortunate prisoner, in his excess of joy, died.

In Shakspeare’s ‘Henry the Eighth’ (Act v. sc. i.) a ring is delivered by the King to Cranmer, in token of royal confidence and esteem:—

Be of good cheer,
They shall no more prevail than we give way to.
Keep comfort to you; and this morning see
You do appear before them; if they shall chance,
In charging you with matters, to commit you,
The best persuasions to the contrary
Fail not to use, and with what vehemency
The occasion shall instruct you: if entreaties
Will render you no remedy, this ring
Deliver them, and your appeal to us
There make before them.

The sequel of this incident is related in Foxe’s ‘Acts and Monuments of the Christian Martyrs,’ printed in 1563:—‘Anon the Archbishop was called into the council-chamber, to whom was alleged as before is rehearsed. The Archbishop answered in like sort as the King had advised him; and in the end, when he perceived that no manner of persuasion or entreaty could serve, he delivered them the King’s ring, revoking his cause into the King’s hands. The whole council being thereat somewhat amazed, the Earl of Bedford, with a loud voice, confirming his words with a solemn oath, said: “When you first began the matter, my Lords, I told you what would become of it. Do you think the King would suffer this man’s finger to ache? Much more, I warrant you, will he defend his life against brabling varlets. You do but cumber yourselves to hear tales and fables against him.” And, incontinently, upon the receipt of the King’s token, they all rose, and carried to the King his ring, surrendering that matter, as the order and use was, into his own hands.’

By the same capricious monarch a turquoise ring was sent to Cardinal Wolsey, in his last troubles at Esher, by Sir John Russel, as a ‘token’ from His Majesty, with the assurance that ‘he loved him as well as ever he did, and was sorry for his trouble.’ On hearing subsequently from Dr. Buttes of the serious illness of his discarded favourite, he sent a valuable ring to him, and Mistress Anne Boleyn, then at the King’s side, at her royal lover’s request, took a gold tablet from her girdle, and gave it with a speech expressing sympathy and commendation—false gifts and hollow words!

In after years, when a deputation was sent by the council of King Edward the Sixth to reduce the recusant Princess Mary to conformity with the Protestant religion, she, on her knees, delivered a ring as a token to the King, saying ‘she would die his true subject and sister, and obey him in all things, except in matters of religion.’

When, as Queen, Mary lay on her deathbed, King Philip, her husband, who did not revisit England after his return to Spain, sent a message and a ring-token to his consort, a ruby set in gold, which she bequeathed to him among other jewels.

One of the most interesting episodes of ring-tokens is that which Queen Elizabeth is said to have given to the Earl of Essex ‘in token of esteem,’ with the intimation that if ever he forfeited her favour, and it should be sent back to her, the sight of it would ensure his forgiveness. The chief authorities for the story appear to be the ‘Relation of M. Aubrey de Maurier,’ printed in 1688, and the account given at the same period by Lady Elizabeth Spelman. The particulars of this occurrence are related in the memoirs of Robert Carey. When Essex lay under sentence of death, he determined to try the virtue of the Queen’s ring by sending it to her and claiming the benefit of her promise. Knowing, however, that he was surrounded by the creatures of those who were bent on taking his life, he was fearful of trusting to any of his attendants. At length, looking out of his window, he saw, early one morning, a boy whose countenance pleased him, and he induced him by a bribe to carry the ring, which he threw down from above, to the Lady Scroop, his cousin, who had taken so friendly an interest in his fate. The boy, by mistake, took the ring to the Countess of Nottingham, the cruel sister of the fair and gentle Scroop, and, as both these ladies belonged to the royal bed-chamber, the mistake might easily occur. The Countess carried the ring to the Lord Admiral, who was a deadly foe of Essex, and told him the message, but he bade her suppress both. The Queen, unconscious of the incident, waited in the painful suspense of an angry lover for the expected token to arrive, but, not receiving it, she concluded that he was too proud to make the last appeal to her tenderness, and, after having once revoked the warrant, she ordered the execution to take place.The romantic story of the Queen visiting the Countess of Nottingham, who had kept back the ring; of her shaking her on her death-bed, and crying out bitterly ‘that God might forgive, but she could not,’ is somewhat credited as documents come to light. In Birch’s ‘Memoirs of the Peers of England during the Reign of James the First,’ this story is given, as having been repeatedly told by Lady Elizabeth Spelman, great-granddaughter of Sir Robert Carey. The Queen is said to have been so hurt by this revelation of Lady Nottingham that she never went to bed, nor took any sustenance from that period. ‘In confirmation of the time of the Countess’s death,’ says Birch, ‘it appears from the parish register of Chelsea that she died at Arundel House, London, February 25, and was buried the 28th, 1603. Her funeral was kept at Chelsea, March 21st following, and Queen Elizabeth died three days afterwards.’

The celebrated ring on which the life of the Earl of Essex is thus said to have depended has been claimed by various persons. In ‘Old England’ (vol. ii. p. 74) a story is told that when, in 1564, Mary, Queen of Scots, married Darnley, she sent to her fair cousin of England a diamond-ring in the form of a heart, in token of the event and her own affection. The ring was accompanied by some Latin verses by Buchanan, thus translated:—

This gem behold, the emblem of my heart,
From which my cousin’s image ne’er shall part;
Clear in its lustre, spotless does it shine,
’Tis clear and spotless as this heart of mine.
What though the stone a greater hardness wears,
Superior firmness still the figure bears.

‘According’ (observes the editor of ‘Old England’) ‘to information which has been communicated to us, with an implicit faith on the part of our informants, that was the ring presented by Elizabeth to Essex, as being the most precious it was in her power to give him.’

Another account says that Mr. Thomas Penning, of the Exchequer, had, in 1781, a purse and ring by bequest from Mr. Sotheby, whose sister he married, and who was related to the late Mrs. Cooke, by long succession and inheritance from Sir Anthony Cooke, of Giddy Hall, Essex, preceptor of Edward the Sixth, and to whose family, according to tradition, these precious objects were given by Queen Elizabeth. The ring was of gold, with the Queen’s bust in bas-relief on a garnet, dressed as in her sixpenny and threepenny pieces of 1574, with the same features round it in the garter with the motto, and fastened with a buckle composed of two diamonds, and the strap turned by another. Over the bust was the crown, composed of twelve diamonds, and on each side the collet three diamonds. On the inner surface, immediately under the bust, was the union rose.

The ‘Devereux’ Ring.

Perhaps the strongest claim to the possession of the real ring of Essex is that which was exhibited at the Society of Antiquaries, March 1858, by the Rev. Lord John Thynne. It is of gold, slightly made, and ornamented on the inside with blue enamel. On the face is set a cameo cut in sardonyx, representing Queen Elizabeth in a high ruff. The workmanship is good, and shows considerable skill in the adaptation of the layers of the stone to the details of the dress. It seems to have been originally made for a very small finger, and to have been subsequently enlarged. The ring is said to have been the property of Lady Frances Devereux, daughter of the Earl of Essex, and afterwards Duchess of Somerset, and to have passed from mother to daughter until it came to Louisa, daughter of John, Earl of Granville, who married Thomas Thynne, second Viscount Weymouth, great-grandfather of the present owner. It has been stated by Captain Devereux that no mention of the ring in question is made in the elaborate will of the Duchess of Somerset. She may, however, have given it to her daughter in her lifetime. The ring appears to have been made for a female finger, and as it is not very likely that the Queen would have worn her own portrait in a ring, it is more probable that this ring was intended for one of the ladies of her court, and it may have been enlarged for some subsequent owner. It is undoubtedly a remarkable work of art of the period of Elizabeth.

It may be noticed that the Hon. Captain Devereux, in his ‘Lives and Letters of the Devereux, Earls of Essex,’ seems to believe in the story of the ring, but the evidence he adduces is not sufficient to justify his faith.

Another ring, which is in the possession of C. W. Warner, Esq. (and is, together with that noticed, engraved in the ‘Lives and Letters of the Devereux, Earls of Essex’), sets forth a rival claim to be the identical ring given to Essex, of which, however, it shows no internal evidence, being a slight ring, without any device, and has an enamelled hoop, set with a pear-shaped diamond.

In ‘Manningham’s Diary,’ 1602-1603 (Camden Society), is the following entry: ‘Dr. Parry told me the Countess Kildare assured him that the Queene caused the ring wherewith shee was wedded to the crowne to be cutt from hir finger, some six weekes before her death, but wore a ring which the Earl of Essex gave her unto the day of hir death.’[66]

The interchange of rings as royal tokens between Queen Elizabeth and Mary, Queen of Scots, was frequent; whether genuine in the feelings that prompted their transmission (at least, as regards the former) may be questioned. On the baptism of the son of the Scottish Queen (afterwards James the Sixth) we are informed that the Duke of Bedford, besides a gold font, the present of Queen Elizabeth, sent ‘ane ring with ane stane to be delivered to the said woman who should occupy the place of the Queen’s Grace of England at the said baptism.’ Mary is mentioned by the English ambassador to the Scottish court as wearing, on the celebration of Twelfth Day in 1562, no jewels or gold, but a ring sent to her by Elizabeth. It may have been that which, a prisoner at Lochleven Castle, she wished to obtain from the royal jewels which had been kept back from her by the Earl of Moray.[67] It had been sent to her as a token of friendship, and the promise that if it were returned to the donor in any period of misfortune she would do her best to assist her.

Miss Strickland informs us that Mary, in a letter to Elizabeth, though unable, as she mentions, to send back the ring, reminds Elizabeth of her promise. This interesting letter is still preserved at Hatfield House. ‘It will please you to remember,’ she writes, ‘you have told me several times that on receiving the ring you gave me you would assist me in my time of trouble. You know that Moray has seized all that I have, and those who had the keeping of some of these things have been ordered not to deliver any of them to me. Robert Melville, at any rate, to whom I have secretly sent for this ring, as my most precious jewel, says “he dare not let me have it.” Therefore I implore you, on receiving this letter, to have compassion on your good sister and cousin, and believe that you have not a more affectionate relative in the world,’ etc. etc., ‘dated from my prison this 1st of May’ (1568).

On the escape of Mary from her ‘prison,’ Sir Robert Melville, anticipating a counter-revolution from the general feeling in favour of the Queen, was one of the first who came to her at Hamilton Castle to renew his homage, bringing with him as a peace-offering the precious ring so often demanded in vain.

‘On leaving Scotland,’ says Miss Strickland, ‘after her fatal resolution of throwing herself on the protection of Queen Elizabeth, Mary sent the ring as an avant-courier, with a letter. This romantic toy, which she regarded in the same light as one of the fairy talismans in eastern love, was actually the lure which tempted her in this desperate crisis of her fortunes to enter England, under the fond idea that its donor could not refuse to keep her promise. She concludes an affecting letter to Queen Elizabeth (dated from Dundrennan) thus: “To remind you of the reasons I have to depend on England, I send back to the Queen the token of her promised friendship and assistance.”’

This memorable ring is described by Aubrey, to have been a delicate piece of mechanism, consisting of several joints, which, when united, formed the quaint device of two right hands supporting a heart between them. This heart was composed of two separate diamonds, held together by a central spring, which, when opened, would allow either of the hearts to be detached.

‘Queen Elizabeth,’ says Aubrey, ‘kept one moietie, and sent the other as a “token” of her constant friendship to Mary, Queen of Scots, but she cut off her head for all that.’

Essex ring (?).

The circumstance of the ring is further verified beyond dispute by Mary herself, in a subsequent letter to Elizabeth, in which she bitterly reproaches her with her perfidious conduct. ‘After I escaped from Lochleven,’ she says, ‘and was nearly taken in battle by my rebellious subjects, I sent you by a trusty messenger the diamond you had given me as a token of affection and demanded your assistance. I believed that the jewel I received as a pledge of your friendship would remind you that when you gave it me I was not only flattered with great promise of assistance from you, but you bound yourself on your royal word to advance over the border to my succour, and to come in person to meet me, and that if I made the journey into your realm that I might confide in your honour.’ Elizabeth, as is well known, took no notice either of the pledge or allusions to her former professions.

The illustration on the preceding page represents the ring mentioned (p. 339) as the property of the Warner family. Sir Thomas Warner, to whom it was presented by James the First, placed it on his shield of arms, with the motto, ‘I hold from the King.’

During the Duke of Norfolk’s imprisonment in the Tower he sent two diamond rings, as love-tokens to Mary, Queen of Scots, while she was at Coventry.

In the metrical chronicle of the ‘Life of Sir Nicholas Throgmorton’ we find that when Elizabeth heard rumours of the death of her sister, Queen Mary, to be really sure, she sent Sir Nicholas Throgmorton to the palace to request one of the ladies of the bed-chamber, who was in her confidence, ‘if the queen were really dead, to send her as a token the black enamelled ring which Her Majesty wore night and day’:—

She said (since nought exceedeth woman’s fears,
Who still do dread some baits of subtlety):
‘Sir Nicholas, know a ring my sister wears
Enamell’d black—a pledge of loyalty—
The which the King of Spain in spousals gave.
If aught fall out amiss, ’tis that I crave.
‘But hark! ope not your lips to anyone
In hope us to obtain of courtesy,
Unless you know my sister first be gone,
For grudging minds will still coyne (coin) treachery.
So shall thyself be safe, and us be sure.
Who takes no hurt shall need no care of cure.’

Elizabeth’s meaning seems to have been that the ring should not be sought for until Mary’s death.A ring ‘token’ was also the announcement of Queen Elizabeth’s death. Lady Scroope, it seems, gave the first intelligence of the event by dropping from the window of the palace a sapphire ring to her brother, Sir Robert Carey, who was lurking beneath the chamber of death at Richmond. He departed with this ring at his utmost speed to announce the tidings to the Scottish monarch.

The sapphire in this ring is in the possession of the Countess of Cork, and was exhibited at the Loan Exhibition of Jewellery at South Kensington in 1872. A statement in the catalogue records the incident related. The ring is mentioned in Robertson’s ‘History of Scotland’ and Banks’ ‘Peerage Books.’ It was afterwards given to John, Earl of Orrery, by the Duchess of Buckingham, natural daughter of James the Second.

I may here remark that Camden relates a romantic incident, that while Queen Elizabeth was celebrating the anniversary of her coronation, Henry of Anjou, one of her royal suitors, in a fit of gallantry, took from her finger a ring in token of betrothal, and put it on his own in presence of the Court; but as this story is entirely refuted by history I forbear the details.

An incident in connection with ring-tokens is related in the life of that distinguished knight and courtier, Sir John Perrot, which has additional interest from having formed the subject of a poem by the late Mrs. Maclean (‘L. E. L.’). The ballad, which appeared some years ago in one of the ‘annuals,’ is so charming and characteristic that I have ventured to reproduce it:—

The evening tide is on the turn; so calm the waters flow,
There seems to be one heav’n above, another heav’n below;
The blue skies broken by white clouds, the river by white foam,
The stars reflect themselves, and seem to have another home.

A shade upon the elements; ’tis of a gallant bark,
Her stately sides fling on the waves an outline dim and dark;
The difference this by things of earth, and things of heav’n made,
The things of heav’n are trac’d in light, and those of earth in shade.
Wrapt in his cloak a noble knight stept to and fro that deck,
Revolving all those gentler thoughts the busier day-hours check;
A thousand sad, sweet influences in truth and beauty lie
Within the quiet atmosphere of a lone starry sky.
A shower of glittering sparkles fell from off the dashing oar,
As a little boat shot rapidly from an old oak on shore;
His eye and pulse grew quick, the knight’s, his heart kept no true time
In his unsteady breathing, with the light oar’s measur’d chime.
‘Thou hast loiter’d—so, in sooth, should I—thy errand be thy plea,
And now, what of my lady bright, what guerdon sent she me?
Or sat she lonely in her bower, or lovely in the hall?
How look’d she when she took my gift? sir page, now tell me all.’
‘I found her with a pallid cheek, and with a drooping head;
I left her, and the summer rose wears not a gladder red.
And she murmur’d something like the tones a lute has in its chords;
So very sweet the whisper was, I have forgot the words.’
‘A health to thee, my lady love, a health in Spanish wine,
To-night I’ll pledge no other health, I’ll name no name but thine.’
The young page hid his laugh, then dropp’d in rev’rence on his knee:
‘In sooth, good master, that I think to-night may scarcely be.
‘While kneeling at your lady’s feet another dame passed by,
The lion in her haughty step, the eagle in her eye:
“And doth the good knight barter gems? God’s truth, we’ll do the same,”
A pleasant meaning lit the smile that to her proud eyes came.
‘She took the fairest of the gems upon her glittering hand,
With her own fingers fasten’d it upon a silken band,
And held it to the lamp, then said: “Like this stone’s spotless flame
So tell your master that I hold his high and knightly fame.”’
Low on his bended knee the knight received that precious stone,
And bold and proud the spirit now that in his dark eyes shone:
‘Up from your sleep, my mariners, for ere the break of day,
And even now the stars are pale, I must be miles away.’

The spray fell from the oars in showers, as in some fairy hall
They say in melting diamonds the charmÈd fountains fall;
And though, as set the weary stars, the darker grew the night,
Yet far behind the vessel left a track of silver light.
They saw again that self-same shore which they that morn had pass’d,
On which they look’d as those who know such look may be the last—
Then out he spoke, the helmsman old: ‘I marvel we should go,
Just like a lady’s messenger, on the same path to and fro.’
‘And ’tis to see a lady’s face this homeward task we ply.
I wot the proudest of us all were proud to catch her eye.
A royal gift our queen hath sent, and it were sore disgrace
If that I first put on her gem, and not before her face!’
On the terrace by the river-side there stood a gallant band,
The very flower of knight and dame were there of English land;
The morning wind toss’d ostrich plume, and stirr’d the silken train,
The morning light from gold and gem was mirror’d back again.
There walk’d the Queen Elizabeth; you knew her from the rest
More by the royal step and eye than by the royal vest;
There flashed, though now the step was staid, the falcon eye was still,
The fiery blood of Lancaster, the haughty Tudor’s will.
A lady by the balustrade, a little way apart,
Lean’d languidly, indulging in the solitude of heart
Which is Love’s empire tenanted by visions of his own—
Such solitude is soon disturb’d, such visions soon are flown.
Love’s pleasant time is with her now, for she hath hope and faith,
Which think not what the lover doth, but what the lover saith.
Upon her hand there is a ring, within her heart a vow;
No voice is whispering at her side—what doth she blush for now?
A noble galley valiantly comes on before the wind;
Her sails are dyed by the red sky she’s leaving fast behind.
None other mark’d the ship that swept so eagerly along;
The lady knew the flag, and when hath lover’s eye been wrong?
The lonely lady watch’d; meantime went on the converse gay.
It was as if the spirits caught the freshness of the day.
‘Good omen such a morn as this,’ her Grace of England said,
‘What progress down our noble Thames hath Sir John Perrot made?’

Then spoke Sir Walter Raleigh, with a soft and silvery smile,
And an earnest gaze that seem’d to catch the Queen’s least look the while,
‘Methinks that ev’ry wind in heav’n will crowd his sails to fill,
For goeth he not forth to do his gracious Sovereign’s will?’
With that the bark came bounding up, then staid her in her flight;
And right beneath the terrace she moor’d her in their sight.
‘Now, by my troth,’ exclaimed the Queen, ‘it is our captain’s bark.
What brings the loiterer back again?’—her eye and brow grew dark.
‘Fair Queen,’ replied a voice below, ‘I pay a vow of mine,
And never yet was voyage delayed by worship at a shrine.’
He took the jewel in his hand, and bent him on his knee,
Then flung the scarf around his neck, where all the gem might see.
His white plumes swept the very deck, yet once he glanc’d above;
The courtesy was for the Queen, the glance was for his love.
‘Now fare-thee-well,’ then said the Queen, ‘for thou art a true knight.’
But even as she spoke the ship was flitting from the sight.
Woe to the Spaniards and their gold amid the Indian seas,
When rolled the thunder of that deck upon the southern breeze,
For bravely Sir John Perrot bore our flag across the main,
And England’s bells for victory rang when he came home again.

In the will of Thomas Sackville, Duke of Dorset (Lord High Treasurer in the times of Elizabeth and James I.), given in Collins’s ‘Baronage,’ is a mention of a token ring. It is described as ‘of gold and enamelled black, and set round with diamonds to the number of twenty; whereof, five, being placed in the upper part of the said ring, do represent the fashion of a cross.’ It is further mentioned as to be a heirloom. ‘And to the intent that they may knowe howe just and great cause bothe they and I have to hould the sayed Rynge, with twentie Diamonds, in so highe esteeme, yt is most requisite that I doe here set downe the whole course and circumstance, howe and from whome the same rynge did come to my possession, which was thus: In the Begynning of the monethe of June, one thousand sixe hundred and seaven, this rynge thus set with twenty Diamonds, as is aforesayed, was sent unto me from my most gracious soveraigne, King James, by that honourable personage, the Lord Haye, one of the gentlemen of His Highnes Bedchamber, the Courte then beying at Whitehall in London, and I at that tyme remayning at Horsley House in Surrey, twentie myles from London, where I laye in suche extremetye of sickness as yt was a common and a constant reporte all over London that I was dead, and the same confidentlie affirmed even unto the Kinge’s Highnes himselfe; upon which occasion it pleased his most excellent majestie, in token of his gracious goodness and great favour towards me, to send the saied Lord Hay with the saied Ringe, and this Royal message unto me, namelie, that his Highness wished a speedie and a perfect recoverye of my healthe, with all happie and good successe unto me, and that I might live as long as the diamondes of that Rynge (which therewithall he delivered unto me) did endure, and in token thereof, required me to weare yt and keepe yt for his sake.’

Among other token rings, under affecting circumstances, I may also mention those given on the eve of his execution (1651) by James Stanley, Earl of Derby, Governor of the Isle of Man—‘a man,’ observes Lodge, ‘of great honour and clear courage.’ A minute narrative of the circumstances of his final hours was penned with touching simplicity by a Mr. Bagaley, one of his gentlemen, who was allowed to attend him to the last, and the manuscript has been carefully preserved in the family. A transcript of the most part of it may be found in Collins’s ‘Peerage.’ He wrote letters to his wife, daughter, and sons, and sent a servant to purchase all the rings he could get. These were wrapped in separate papers, and Bagaley, under the Earl’s instructions, directed them to his children and servants, and the unfortunate nobleman said: ‘As to them I can say nothing; silence and your own looks will best tell your message.’

Rings, as ‘tokens,’ or pledges, for the repayment of loans were made for Queen Henrietta Maria, the consort of Charles the First, while she was in Holland, endeavouring to raise money and troops for her unfortunate husband. To such as gave her pecuniary assistance she was accustomed to show her gratitude by the gift of a ring, or some other trinket from her own cabinet; but when the increasing exigencies of the King’s affairs compelled her to sell or pawn in Holland the whole of her plate and most of her jewels for his use, she adopted an ingenious device by which she was enabled, at a small expense, to continue her gifts to her friends, and in a form that rendered them more precious to the recipient parties, because they had immediate reference to herself. She had a great many rings, lockets, and bracelet clasps made with her cipher, the letters ‘H. M. R.,’ Henrietta Maria Regina, in very delicate filagree of gold, entwined in a monogram, laid on a ground of crimson velvet, covered with thick crystal, cut like a table-diamond and set in gold. These were called the King’s pledges, or ‘tokens,’ and presented by her to any person who had lent her money, or had rendered her any particular service, with an understanding that if presented to Her Majesty at any future time, when fortune smiled on the royal cause, it would command, either repayment of the money advanced, or some favour from the Queen as an equivalent.

‘Many of these interesting testimonials are still in existence’ (observes Miss Strickland), ‘and, in families where the tradition has been forgotten, have been regarded as amulets which were to secure good fortune to the wearer.’ One of these royal pledges, Miss Strickland informs us, has been preserved as an heirloom in her family, and there is a ring with the same device, in possession of Philip Darrell, Esq., of Cales Hill, Kent, which was presented to his immediate ancestor by that queen.

It was in the reign of Charles the First that a fearful incident occurred in Scotland (1630) at the Castle of Frendraught—a fire breaking out at midnight in a sudden manner, ‘yea, in ane clap,’ says Spalding, involving the whole of the inmates in destruction, excepting three persons. Viscount Melgum, son of the Marquis of Huntly, only twenty-four years of age, who was a guest of the Laird of Frendraught at the time, perished, leaving a widow and child. A popular ballad of the day speaks of his being called on to leap from the window:—

‘How can I leap, how can I win,
How can I leap to thee?
My head’s fast in the wire-window,
My feet burning from me.’
He’s ta’en the rings from aff his hands,
And thrown them o’er the wall;
Saying, ‘Give them to my lady fair,
Where she sits in the hall.’

A pledge or token ring of remarkable interest was exhibited by Mr. J. W. Singer at the Loan Exhibition of Ancient and Modern Jewellery, South Kensington Museum, in 1872. This ring (of silver, set with a yellow topaz, diamonds, and a small ruby of English manufacture) has been preserved in the Penderell family, as that given by King Charles II. as a token of gratitude for the fidelity which saved him in the oak-tree at Boscobel, after the battle of Worcester. At the King’s Restoration the five brothers Penderell attended at Whitehall, ‘when his Majesty was pleased to own their faithful service, and graciously dismissed them with a princely reward’ (‘Boscobel Tracts’).

This ring now belongs to Mrs. Whiteby, of Beckington, Somerset, fifth in descent from Penderell. A yearly pension of one hundred pounds for ever was conferred upon the family, a portion of which (forty pounds) is now only received by a male relative.

A ring-token, of sinister omen, is mentioned of the same monarch. This ill bestowal of a ring from royalty is exemplified in the case of that hideous judicial monster Jeffreys. With thorough want of judgment, Charles II., in a fit of imprudency, habitual to him, gave the infamous judge a ring from his own finger. This was popularly termed Jeffreys’s blood-stone, as he obtained it soon after the execution of Sir Thomas Armstrong. Roger North says: ‘The King was persuaded to present him with a ring, publicly taken from his own finger, in token of his Majesty’s acceptance of his most eminent services; and this, by way of precursor, being blazoned in the Gazette, his Lordship went down into the country as from the King, legatus À latere.’ And a mission of blood and brutality it was!

A ring-token or present is mentioned in the ‘True Remembrances’ of Richard Boyle, the great Earl of Cork, who says: ‘When first I arrived in Ireland, June 23, 1588, all my wealth then was twenty-seven pounds three shillings in money, and two tokens which my mother had given me, viz. a diamond ring, which I have ever since and still do wear, and a bracelet of gold worth about ten pounds.’

Many other instances of ring-tokens might be mentioned, but the limits to which this work is confined prevent me from enlarging on the subject. I will merely allude as a memorable instance in modern times, to the ring-token presented to George III. on his birthday in 1764 by his Queen. It was a ring splendidly ornamented with brilliants, and contained an enamel in which were the portraits, exquisitely represented, of their children.

I will conclude these notices of token rings with a very stirring ballad by Mr. PlanchÉ, entitled ‘The Three Rings’:—

‘Good morrow, lovely lady! Is thy noble lord with thee?’
‘Sir knight, since to the wars he went, full moons have wasted three;
Three weary moons have wax’d and waned since he sail’d o’er the main,
And little wist I when these eyes shall see my lord again.’
‘Forget him, lovely lady, as by him thou art forgot.’
‘Thou dost him wrong, sir knight; by him forgotten I am not:
I hold within my arms a pledge for his true love to me,
This new-born babe—his child and mine—which he hath yet to see.’
‘Oh, let me be thy servant, lady—I will love thee dear—’
‘Sir knight, I am a wedded wife, such words I may not hear—’
‘None else can hear them, lady. What witnesses are nigh?’
‘This heart, which is Hernando’s, and God who sits on high.’
‘Sweet lady, yet a boon, upon my bended knee, I crave—’
‘Sir knight, if one which I can grant with honour, ask and have.’
‘Oh, give me these three golden rings that on thy fingers shine.’
‘Sir knight, with life alone I part with these three rings of mine!’
‘Oh, lend them but a day—an hour—to wear them for thy sake—’
‘It may not be, such act my lord would proof of falsehood make.’
‘Enough, enough, unkind one! Then I may nought obtain?’
‘When thou would’st aught that I may grant, sir knight, demand again.’
The knight hath mounted his steed and away—his love is changed to hate.
At the nearest town he lighted down before a goldsmith’s gate:
He hath bought three rings of plain red gold, like those by Clara worn,
‘O bitterly thy slight of me, proud lady, shalt thou mourn!’
He hath mounted again his coal-black barb before the break of day.
And who is he, the warrior bold, who meets him on the way?
It is the brave Hernando, who, the Soldan’s city won,
Now pants to hold within his arms his wife and new-born son.
‘What news? what news? thou noble knight; good friend, thy tidings tell—
How fare my wife and infant child—say, are they safe and well?’
‘Thy wife is well, and eke the boy’—‘Thy speech is brief and cold;
Clara is true?’—‘For answer, look on these three rings of gold.’
One instant, and his vizor’s clos’d, his lance is in the rest—
‘Defend thee now, thou felon knight! Foul shame be on thy crest!’
One charge—one shock. The traitor’s corse is from the saddle cast,
Through plate, and chain, and gambeson, Hernando’s spear hath pass’d.
He buries in his courser’s flank his bloody spears again;
Away! away! he scales the hill—he thunders o’er the plain!
‘Up, Clara, up!’ her mother cries; ‘Hernando comes! I see
The well-known blazon on his shield. ’Tis he, my child, ’tis he!’
‘Oh, mother! rides he fast as one who to his true-love hies?
Canst see his face, dear mother? Looks joy from out his eyes?’
‘His helmet, child, is open, and he rideth fast enow,
But his cheek is pale, and bent, as if in anger, seems his brow.’
The tramp of armed feet is heard upon the turret stair;
Forth springs to meet her lord’s embrace that lady fond and fair.
By the silken locks, in which his hands have oft been fondly twined,
He hath seized and dragged her from her bower with jealous fury blind.
He hath bound her at his horse’s heels—nor shriek nor prayer he heeds;
O’er rugged rock, through bush and briar, the goaded courser speeds;
Her flesh is rent by every thorn, her blood stains every stone,—
Now, Jesu sweet, have mercy! for her cruel lord hath none!
And lo! the sharp edge of a flint hath shorn the cord in twain;
Down leaps the vengeful lord to make his victim fast again.
‘What have I done.? Before I die, my crime, Hernando, say?’
‘The golden rings I charged thee keep, thou false one, where are they?’
‘Oh where, but on the hand which, with my heart, I gave to thee!
Draw off my glove—I cannot—for my strength is failing me!’
‘Oh curses on my frantic rage!—my wrong’d—my murder’d wife—
Come forth, my sword! Then, Clara, shall life atone for life!’
She staggered up, love gave her strength, the sword afar she hurl’d,
‘Thou know’st my innocence! Oh, live to prove it to the world!
Weep not for Clara—loved by thee, contented she expires!
Live for our child—the boy whose fame shall emulate his sire’s!’
‘Our child!—the child my fury hath made motherless to-day!
And when he for his mother asks—O God—what shall I say?’
‘Say that her name was Clara—that thy love was her pride—
That, blessing him and thee, she smiled, as in thy arms she died!’

Mr. PlanchÉ has borrowed the subject of his admirable poem from a legend still popular in Normandy. It is that of Marianson, the wife of a French noble. An evil spirit instigates a false knight to borrow the three golden token-rings of the lady during the absence of her lord. He takes them to a jeweller, who is ordered to prepare three others exactly similar, and then returns the lady her own rings. On his way he meets the husband, whose wife he declares has been unfaithful, and in proof of his assertion he shows the three surreptitious rings. The result of this is the fearful death of Marianson, being tied to the tail of a wild horse, and torn to pieces, and the after-discovery of the three rings in her drawer by the jealous husband.

A somewhat similar legend is related of the Lady of Toggenburg, who lived in a castle near the Lake of Zurich. Her ‘token’ ring was stolen by a crow, who dropped it in the park, where it was found by a young squire, who placed it on his finger. The Count of Toggenburg, passing at the time, saw the ring, and, inflamed by jealous fury, without asking any questions, rushed into the castle, and hurled his wife from the battlements into the lake. The young squire was torn to pieces by wild horses.