‘In the year 1341, an inundation of many days’ continuance had raised the water three cubits higher than it had ever before been seen at Venice; and during a stormy night, while the flood appeared to be still increasing, a poor fisherman sought what refuge he could find by mooring his crazy bark close to the Riva di San Marco. The storm was yet raging, when a person approached and offered him a good fare if he would but ferry him over to San Giorgio Maggiore. ‘Who,’ said the fisherman, ‘can reach San Giorgio on such a night as this? Heaven forbid that I should try!’ But as the stranger earnestly persisted in his request, and promised to guard him from all harm, he at last consented. The passenger landed, and having desired the boatman to wait a little, returned with a companion, and ordered him to row to San Nicolo di Lido. The astonished fisherman again refused, till he was prevailed upon by a further assurance of safety and excellent pay. At San Nicolo they picked up a third person, and then instructed the boatman to proceed to the Two Castles at Lido. Though the waves ran fearfully high, the old man had by this time become accustomed to them, and moreover, there was something about his mysterious crew which either silenced his fears, or diverted them from the tempest to his companions. Scarcely had they gained the Strait, than they saw a galley, rather flying than sailing along the Adriatic, manned (if we may so say) with devils, who seemed hurrying with fierce and threatening gestures, to sink Venice in the deep. The sea, which had been furiously agitated, in a moment became unruffled, and the strangers, crossing themselves, conjured the fiends to depart. At the word the demoniacal galley vanished, and the three passengers were quietly landed at the spots where each, respectively, had been taken up.
The boatman, it seems, was not quite easy about his fare, and before parting, he implied, pretty clearly, that the sight of the miracle would, after all, be bad pay. ‘You are right, my friend,’ said the first passenger; ‘go to the Doge and the Procuratori, and assure them that, but for us three, Venice would have been drowned. I am St. Mark; my two comrades are St George and St. Nicholas. Desire the magistrate to pay you; and add that all the trouble has arisen from a schoolmaster at San Felice, who first bargained with the devil for his soul, and then hanged himself in despair.’
The fisherman, who seemed to have, all his wits about him, answered that he might tell that story, but he much doubted whether he should be believed; upon which St. Mark pulled from his finger a gold ring, worth about five ducats, saying:—‘Show them this ring, and bid them look for it in my Treasury, whence it will be found missing.’ On the morrow the fisherman did as he was told. The ring was discovered to be absent from its usual custody, and the fortunate boatman not only received his fare, but an annual pension to boot. Moreover, a solemn procession and thanksgiving were appointed in gratitude to the three holy corpses which had rescued from such calamity the land affording them burial.’
Pope Hildebrand, one of the prime movers of the Norman invasion of England, excommunicated Harold and his supporters, and despatched a sacred banner, as well as a diamond ring enclosing one of the Apostle Peter’s hairs, to Normandy.
The mediæval romances abound in allusions to the wonderful virtues of rings. These were cherished conceits among the old writers. In the fabulous history of Ogier le Danois the fairy Morgana gives that hero a ring, which, although at that time he was one hundred years old, gives him the appearance of a man of thirty. After a lapse of two hundred years Ogier appears at the court of France, where the secret of his transformation is found out by the old Countess of Senlis, who, while making love to him, draws the talisman from his finger, and places it on her own. She instantly blossoms into youth, while Ogier as suddenly sinks into decrepitude. The Countess, however, is forced to give back the ring, and former appearances are restored, but as she had discovered the virtues of the ring, she employs thirty champions to regain it, all of whom are successfully defeated by Ogier.
In the ‘Vision of Pierce Plowman’ (about 1350) the poet speaks of a woman whose fingers were all embellished with rings of gold, set with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires, and also Oriental stones or amulets to prevent any poisonous infection.
In the romance of ‘Sir Perceval of Galles’ the knight obtains surreptitious possession of a ring endowed with mysterious qualities:—
Suche a vertue es in the stane
In alle thys werlde wote I nane,
Siche stone in a rynge;
A mane that had it in were,
One his body for to bere,
There scholde no dyntys hym dere,
Ne to the dethe brynge.
So in ‘Sir Eglamour of Artois’:—
Seyde Organata that swete thynge
Y schalle geve the a gode golde rynge
With a fulle ryche stone,
Whedur that ye be on water or on londe,
And that rynge be upon yowre honde,
Ther schall nothyng yow slon.