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.’