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.