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:—