SOURCE: T. W. Coleman, "Richard Rolle," in English Mystics of the Fourteenth Century, The Epworth Press, 1938, pp. 64-83.

[Below, Coleman describes Rolle not only as a true mystic, but also as a bridge from medieval to modern literature by virtue of the personal note in his devotional and literary styles.]

History plays curious pranks. In the middle of the fourteenth century, Richard Rolle of Hampole was one of our most prolific writers, in verse and prose, on religious subjects. During his lifetime, and for some years after his death, alike in England and upon the Continent, his numerous works were eagerly sought and frequently copied. Unfortunately, after enjoying this blaze of popularity, he was banished to the night of neglect. Why he suffered this eclipse is a mystery. It may be that during the century of political disturbances and prolonged wars, through which this country passed soon after his decease, his name simply faded out of remembrance. Or, later still, his writings may have been swamped by the spate of literature released by the printing-press at the time of the Renaissance and the Reformation. Whatever the cause, the fact remains that the incomparable works of this saint and poet all but disappeared. At the dawn of the present century his name was hardly known outside a small circle of medieval scholars. In history books he was barely mentioned, and in anthologies seldom quoted. All this has recently changed. Owing to the present revival of interest in mysticism, diligent search has been made for the longlost manuscripts of this Yorkshire recluse, with gratifying results. His writings, to meet a widespread demand, are being reproduced in a variety of forms.

This newer knowledge is leading to a revised estimate of the Hermit. Expert authorities, after a critical examination of his works, and a careful endeavour to measure his influence upon the movements of his age, are of the opinion that he is a figure of some importance. He is fast becoming recognized as one of the main creative forces in the earlier development of our national literature and religion.

Undeniable claims for an original place of this kind can be advanced for Rolle. He was one of the earliest writers, after the Conquest, to express himself in the mothertongue. Scholars agree that his distinctive style of Middle English—terse, incisive, graphic—has exercised no small influence on the written form of our language. Some give him the title, Father of English prose. He was one of the first to translate parts of the Scriptures into the vernacular. Wycliffe made use of these renderings. Hence these two Yorkshiremen share the honour of being pioneers in the making of the English Bible. Rolle will always be of exceptional interest to students of our national religion—especially if they are lovers of the devout life—because he is one of the first of the English mystics whose writings we possess. How a figure of such dimensions could have fallen into comparative oblivion is a riddle of history.

This saintly hermit is certainly a most attractive personality. His candour and simplicity charm you. Without the faintest trace of self-consciousness, he opens to you the secret places of his soul. In his larger works, where the autobiographical element is most marked, his confessions at times are so intimate that you get the impression you are talking face to face with your closest friend. This frankness wins you.

In this, as in many other ways, he often reminds you of the Saint of Assisi. The parallel is irresistible. Richard, like Francis, was a born romanticist: his behaviour, private and public, was characterized by unexpected and daring elements, pregnant with delightful surprise—not the way of the prudent and discreet for him! Like Francis, too, he was a gay troubadour of the Spirit: when prose failed his ecstasy, he burst into lyric song; melody was his normal form of prayer. But not only did his soul wing its way to God on outbursts of praise, his life amongst men was also set to music: it was so sunny and care-free. Again like Francis, when he stepped out of the old world into the new, he symbolized the change by an act of stripping; off came his old clothes, and with a youth's ingenuity, he fashioned some new—an imitation of a hermit's habit. This curious costume was likewise intended to be a symbol—a badge of willing servitude: for still like the 'little poor man' of Assisi, he was going to serve his Lord in poverty, chastity, and obedience.

In addition to all this, as we turn the pages of Rolle's books, we soon learn that we are under the guidance of a scholar. We are first conscious of this because of the ease and culture of his style; but evidence is also there in his references to, and his ideas and phrases taken from, Fathers and Doctors of the Church like St. Augustine, St. Bernard, Richard of St. Victor, and St. Bonaventura.

For knowledge of the outward events of his life we are dependent upon the Lessons prepared for inclusion in the Office intended to be used after his canonization. This honour was never conferred, possibly because of the tension between the English Crown and the Papacy at that period; and also because, soon after his decease, his name became associated with Lollardy. The Lessons were drawn up shortly after his death—probably by the Cistercian nuns of Hampole, to whom he was spiritual adviser. While a strain of legend runs through the story, investigation has proved that the distinctly biographical parts are in the main trustworthy.

For the much more important facts of his inner life we turn to his own works. These, written in Latin and English, were many and varied. They range from the highest class of devotional writings in prose and poetry, through commentaries on the Scriptures and the Creeds, to practical treatises and popular tracts. For our purpose we shall chiefly consult two collections of his prose: The Fire of Love and the Mending of Life, translated from the Latin in 1434-5, by Richard Misyn, and modernized by Frances M. M. Comper; and Selected Works of Richard Rolle, transcribed by G. C. Heseltine, containing all his English writings, except his long translation and commentary on the Psalter.¹

We learn from the Lessons that Richard was born at Thornton, near Pickering, in Yorkshire; no date is given, but other authorities give a choice of two, 1290 and 1300. His parents, judging from their social connexions, belonged to the well-to-do classes. No particulars are given anywhere about his early life; the only information available is the little to be gleaned from his writings. In one place he cries out:

Lord God, have mercy on me! My youth was fond; my childhood vain; my young age unclean. But now Lord Jesu my heart is enflamed with Thy holy love and my reins are changed; and my soul will not touch for bitterness what before was my food: and my affections are now such that I hate nothing but sin.²

In his beautiful little treatise, Of the Virtues of the Holy Name of Jesus, he breaks forth:

'I went about, covetous of riches, and I found not Jesus. I ran in wantonness of the flesh, and I found not Jesus. I sat in companies of worldly mirth, and I found not Jesus. In all these I sought Jesus, but I found Him not. For He let me know by His grace that He is not found in the land of softly living. Therefore I turned another way, and I ran about in poverty, and I found Jesus, poorly born into the world, laid in a crib and lapped in cloths. I wandered in the suffering of weariness, and I found Jesus weary in the way, tormented with hunger, thirst and cold, filled with reproofs and blame. I sat by myself alone, fleeing the vanities of the world, and I found Jesus in the desert, fasting on the mountain, praying alone. I went the way of pain and penance, and I found Jesus bound, scourged, given gall to drink, nailed to the Cross, hanging on the Cross, and dying on the Cross.³

We must not accept too literally Richard's severe strictures upon his youth. He is regarding his past from the sun-lit heights of sanctity; from those shining summits his early days might well look dark and vain. When a young man, he was sent to Oxford by the help of Master Thomas de Neville, Archdeacon of Durham. Oxford, at that time one of the most famous seats of learning in Europe, was visited by scholars from all parts of the Continent; yet we can easily believe that the youthful Richard did not settle there with much enthusiasm. Although Scholasticism was past its prime, and its end was being hastened by William of Occam's persistent blows, it still retained the semblance of its age-long supremacy. Its method and spirit in its declining days would repel Richard; his warm heart and romantic nature would crave for something less bleak and arid. This makes it not improbable that he did, as some suggest, cross to France to complete his studies. For his residence at the Sorbonne evidence is not lacking. Be this as it may, at the age of nineteen he determined to be done with schools and universities, and even with home and friends; he was ready to take a fateful step. This should not surprise us. Adolescence is a time of instability and readjustment; more often than not it shapes the path of the future. Most young men, did we but realize it, in their pitiable confusion and craving for guidance, are 'not far from the Kingdom'.⁴ Given Richard's ardent temperament, we may assume that during his growth into manhood, he would pass through times of mental stress and spiritual conflict, in which he would alternate between hope and fear, faith and doubt. The crisis—like most crises—would warm up gradually, simmering in the depths of his soul. Suddenly it sprang into consciousness. With him it would have the severity of an earthquake. He faced the upheaval manfully. He would flee from the embrace of the world to the arms of God. The story of the Lessons is here dramatic and absorbing:

He said one day to his sister, "My beloved sister, thou hast two tunics which I greatly covet, one white and the other grey. Therefore I ask thee if thou wilt kindly give them to me, and bring them me tomorrow to the wood near by, together with my father's rain-hood…. " When he had received them he straightway cut off the sleeves from the grey tunic and the buttons from the white, and as best he could he fitted the sleeves to the white tunic, so that they might in some manner be suited to his purpose. Then he took off his own clothes, with which he was clad, and put on his sister's white tunic next his skin, but the grey, with the sleeves cut out, he put on over it, and put his arms through the holes which had been cut; and he covered his head with the rainhood aforesaid, so that thus in some measure, as far as was then in his power, he might present a certain likeness to a hermit. But when his sister saw this she was astounded and cried, "My brother is mad! My brother is mad!"⁵

Soon after, on the vigil of the Assumption, he entered a church to pray—possibly at Topcliffe, near Ripon. He occupied the place of a certain lady, the wife of a squire, John de Walton. Her servants wished to remove him, but she would not consent. At the close of the service, the lady's sons recognized Richard as a fellow-student at Oxford. On the day of the feast, without asking permission, he put on a surplice and sang matins and the office of mass with the others. Then, having secured the priest's blessing, he went into the pulpit and preached a sermon of such conviction and power that his hearers were brought to tears.

The squire was warmly attached to Richard's father as a friend, so he invited the young man to his home. After dinner he had an earnest talk with him in private. When the squire had convinced himself of Richard's serious purpose, he did a generous thing: he provided him not only with a habit suitable for a hermit, but also with food and lodging. The youth was now able to satisfy his heart's desire—to give himself to the full rigours of a recluse's life. He moved into a small cell, slept on a hard bench, and gave himself up to fasts, vigils, and frequent penitential acts.⁶

Richard was now firmly started on his life's adventure. He never looked back. With iron will he went forward in pursuit of his ideal—the achievement of sanctity. After living for some years in the vicinity of Sir John de Walton's home, and having attained a high degree of holiness, he had become a centre of interest and attraction. One day some visitors came and found him busily writing. They asked him for a word of exhortation. The good man spoke to them for two hours, yet he continued at the same time to write as quickly as before. On another occasion, he was so absorbed in prayer, that when a worn cloak was removed from him, stitched and replaced, he knew nothing about it. He had become so skilful in the use of his tongue and pen, that hearts were comforted by his words—especially his written ones:

Yet wonderful and beyond measure useful was the work of this saintly man in holy exhortations, whereby he converted many to God, and in his sweet writings, both treatises and little books composed for the edification of his neighbours, which all sound like sweetest music in the hearts of the devout.⁷

By this time he was ready for wider fields of activity. He moved about from place to place, seeking by turns service and solitude. Wherever he went, many were blessed. He gave light to those in spiritual darkness, and relieved such as suffered mental or physical distress. His journeyings brought him to Richmondshire, where he became the friend and helper of Dame Margaret Kirkby, a recluse of Anderby. A mutually profitable fellowship sprang up between them. The ancress seems thoroughly to have understood the hermit. On occasions when he was wounded by vicious tongues, Margaret was able to tranquillize his sensitive spirit. Some of his books were written for this fellow-seeker after the higher life.

His last move was to Hampole, near Doncaster. In between his times of devotions and writing, he gave his services to a convent of Cistercian nuns. Here he passed away in 1349. He appears to have been a victim of the Black Death. He gave his life in saving others: that is what we should have expected.

Richard's advance in the spiritual life is easy to trace because he describes its stages, in their nature and duration, with exactness. Reference has been made to his conversion. Though it had the violence of an earth-quake, it did but herald the pilgrim's start; he now describes his progress on the way:

And in process of time great profit in ghostly joy was given to me. Forsooth three years, except three or four months, were run from the beginning of the change of my life and mind, to the opening of the heavenly door; so that, the Face being shown, the eyes of the heart might behold and see by what way they might seek my Love, and unto Him continually desire. The door forsooth yet biding open, nearly a year passed until the time in which the heat of everlasting love was verily felt in my heart. I was sitting forsooth in a chapel, and whiles I was mickle delighted with sweetness of prayer or meditation, suddenly I felt within me a merry and unknown heat. But first I wavered, for a long time doubting what it could be. I was expert that it was not from a creature but from my Maker, because I found it grow hotter and more glad. Truly in this unhoped for, sensible, and sweet-smelling heat, half a year, three months and some weeks ran out, until the inshedding and receiving of this heavenly and ghostly sound; the which belongs to the songs of everlasting praise and the sweetness of the unseen melody …

Whiles truly I sat in this same chapel, and in the night before supper, as I could, I sang psalms, I beheld above me the noise as it were of readers, or rather singers. Whiles also I took heed praying to heaven with my whole desire, suddenly, I wot not in what manner, I felt in me the noise of song, and received the most liking heavenly melody which dwelt with me in my mind. For my thought was forsooth changed to continual song of mirth, and I had as it were praises in my meditation, and in my prayers and psalm saying I uttered the same sound, and henceforth, for plenteousness of inward sweetness, I burst out singing what before I said, but forsooth privily, because alone before my Maker….

Wherefore from the beginning of my changed soul unto the high degree of Christ's love, the which, God granting I was able to attain—in which degree I might sing God's praise with joyful song—I was four years and about three months.⁸

That is a celebrated passage in the literature of English mysticism. We value it for its delightful simplicity of style and spirit, and for its illuminating description of the profound mystical changes which this dauntless seeker after the perfect life underwent. Students of mysticism point out how these changes correspond to the three stages of the mystic way: purgation, illumination, and union. It is highly probable that the Saint's advancement did reproduce these stages. Most readers, however, will prefer to interpret the passage as a poet's effort to express—as far as words will—his glad and progressive apprehension of Divine Reality.

It will be observed that Rolle describes his experiences in terms of heat, song, and sweetness. This he does consistently. He does not wish us to understand the words in a fanciful, or a merely figurative sense. For instance, when writing of heat, he assures us repeatedly that the term describes exactly what he feels 'truly, and not in imagination'. Lest any one should think he is suffering from illusions, he soberly writes in the Prologue of his book:

I was forsooth amazed as the burning in my soul burst up, and of an unwont solace; ofttimes, because of my ignorance of such healthful abundance, I have groped my breast seeking whether this burning were from any bodily cause outwardly. But when I knew that it was only kindled inwardly from a ghostly cause, and that this burning was nought of fleshly love or concupiscence, in this I conceived it was the gift of my Maker.⁹

So far as we know, Rolle was the first and last of the mystics to use this trilogy of terms. Many mystics, to express their heart's feelings when kindled by Divine Love, have employed one or another of these words; and with them, each of the three words meant much the same thing—the terms were interchangeable. Rolle never actually defines the words, but he uses each one to represent a different phase of his spiritual experience. Heat stands for the conscious inflowing of heavenly love. Song for the pouring forth of his adoring soul in gratitude to the Beloved. Sweetness, the state of inward joy which results from this fellowship:

Whence truly in these three that are tokens of the most perfect love, the highest perfection of Christian religion without all doubt is found; and I have now, Jesu granting, received these three after the littleness of my capacity. Nevertheless I dare not make myself even to the saints that have shone in them, for they peradventure have received them more perfectly. Yet I shall be busy in virtue that I may more burningly love, more sweetly sing, and more plenteously feel the sweetness of love…¹⁰

What Rolle, with his keen sense of humour, would have said of some of our explanations of his ecstasies, might have been interesting to hear. Here is one by Miss Underhill: 'Those interior states or moods to which, by the natural method of comparison that governs all descriptive speech, the self gives such sensenames as these of "Heat, Sweetness, and Song", react in many mystics upon the bodily state. Psycho-sensorial parallelisms are set up. The well-known phenomenon of stigmatization, occurring in certain hypersensitive temperaments as the result of deep meditation upon the Passion of Christ, is perhaps the best clue by which we can come to understand how such a term as "the fire of love" has attained a double significance for mystical psychology.'¹¹

Such descriptions of the machinery underlying the Saint's raptures should not be taken too seriously. A smile is a simple thing, and can be described in terms of mental and muscular movements; but how inadequate is the explanation. The essential element in a smile is personality; of this, psycho-physical accompaniments tell us nothing. So here. 'Psycho-sensorial parallelisms' is a phrase covering a network of mysteries. It says little of real enlightenment. Concerning the method of the Divine Spirit's operation upon our spirit it leaves us very much where we were. On this point, Dr. Thouless says, 'It is impossible to pretend that our knowledge of psychological laws is so complete that we can honestly say that it provides us with an explanation of the desires, thoughts, feelings, &c, of anybody'.¹²

Rolle freely admits the mystery, and at the same time regretfully confesses that words are useless to express the wonder of his experiences:

The smallness of my mind certain knows not how to open that which as a blabberer, I am busy to show. Yet I am compelled to say somewhat, although it is unable to be spoken, that hearers or readers may study to follow it; finding that all love of the fairest and loveliest worldly thing in comparison to God's love, is sorrow and wretchedness.

This delight, certain, which he has tasted in loving Jesu, passes all wit and feeling. Truly I can not tell a little point of this joy, for who can tell an untold heat? Who lay bare an infinite sweetness? Certain if I could speak of this joy unable to be told, it seems to me as if I should teem¹³ the sea by drops, and spar¹⁴ it all in a little hole of the earth.¹⁵

What are the conditions of this love? They are stated very simply:

Truly affluence of this everlasting love comes not to me in idleness, nor might I feel this ghostly heat while I was weary because of bodily travel, or truly immoderately occupied with worldly mirth, or else given without measure to disputation; but I have felt myself truly in such things wax cold, until, putting a-sback all things in which I might outwardly be occupied, I have striven to be only in the sight of my Saviour and to dwell in full inward burning.¹⁶

Lest we think these conditions too simple, he states them again in a manner that would not be acceptable to many in his day:

Alas, for shame! An old wife is more expert in God's love, and less in worldly pleasure, than the great divine, whose study is vain. For why? For vanity he studies, that he may appear glorious and so be known, and may get rents and dignities: the which is worthy to be held a fool, and not wise.¹⁷

Of those who have merely book knowledge, and pride themselves upon their learning and skill, he is not a little scornful:

But those taught by knowledge gotten, not inshed, and puffed up with folded arguments, in this are disdainful: saying, Where learned he? Who read to him? For they trow not that the lovers of endless love might be taught by their inward master to speak better than they taught of men, that have studied at all times for vain honours.

Thou needest not covet greatly many books. Keep love in thine heart and work, and thou hast all that we may say or write. For the fullness of the law is charity; on that hangs all.¹⁸

In many places, Rolle, like most mystical writers, refers to the degrees of love. On such occasions he is emphasizing the fact that love is always growing; it never stops or stagnates; upwards and onwards it constantly climbs towards the Ideal. The fullest and finest exposition of some of the stages through which it passes is in the charming eighth chapter of The Form of Living.

Three degrees of love I shall tell thee, for I would that thou might win to the highest. The first degree is called Insuperable, the second Inseparable, and the third Singular.

Thy love is Insuperable when nothing that is contrary to God's love overcomes it, but it is stalwart against all temptations and stable whether thou be in ease or anguish, in health or sickness. So that thou thinkest that thou wouldest not, for all the world and to have it for ever, at any time make God wrath….

Thy love is Inseparable when all thy heart and thy thought and thy might are so wholly, so entirely and so perfectly fastened, set, and established in Jesus Christ, that thy thought goes never from Him, except sleeping….

The third degree is highest and most wondrous to win. That is called Singular, for it has no peer. Singular love is when all comfort and solace are closed out of thy heart but that of Jesus Christ alone. It seeks no other joy….¹⁹

He often warns those who would rise highest that they must work hardest:

The soul goes up into this height whiles, soaring by excess, it is taken up above itself, and heaven being open to the eye of the mind, it offers privy things to be beheld. But first truly it behoves to be exercised busily, and for not a few years, in praying and meditating, scarcely taking the needs of the body, so that it may be burning in fulfilling these; and, all feigning being cast out, it should not slacken day and night to seek and know God's love.²⁰

He has no doubt about the superiority of the contemplative life over the active. He does not rush to this conclusion hastily; he carefully balances one against the other and then decides:

By some truly it is doubted which life is more meedful and better: contemplative or active. It seems to not a few that active is meedfuller because of the many deeds and preachings that it uses. But these err unknowingly, for they know not the virtue of contemplative. Yet there are many active better than some contemplative; but the best contemplative are higher than the best active.

Truly if any man might get both lives, that is to say contemplative and active, and keep and fulfil them, he were full great; that he might fulfil bodily service, and nevertheless feel the heavenly sound in himself, and be melted in singing into the joy of heavenly love. I wot not if ever any mortal man had this. To me it seems impossible that both should be together.²¹

At times, however, his references to those of active life are tinged with contempt; especially if once they were contemplatives:

This manner of man forsooth that is taken up to so high love, ought to be chosen neither to office nor outward prelacy; nor to be called to any secular errand…. Holy contemplatives are most rare and therefore most dear…. Those who will polish such, that is to say honour them with dignities, are busy to lessen their heat, and in a manner to make their fairness and their clearness dim; for truly if they get the honour of principality, they shall forsooth be made fouler and of less meed. Therefore they shall be left to take heed to their studies, that their clearness may increase.²²

From passages such as these—and there are many sprinkled throughout his works—it is plain that the hermit had but little respect either for the Church dignitaries of his day, or for those who made the most pious professions: 'the religious'. Of some of these latter—monks and friars who had become degenerate and greedily preyed upon rich and poor alike—he writes in his Commentaries with biting scorn:

Here we pray not to live a worldly life …; nor to despoil the people and gather their goods into our castles, nor by the craft of flattery to please the world; but even to live the contrary life…. For by wandering in such ways men may well see whose children they are and for whom they make ready. For the king of all such children of pride, who is Antichrist, leads such religious and teaches them these deceits. Wherefore some men say that they are dead corpses gathered from their sepulchres, wrapped in the clothes of grief and driven by the devil to draw men. And thus they wear the badges of hypocrisy. It were less harmful to men of Christ's school to deal with a legion of the fiends of hell than with a little convent of such quick devils. For some they rob and some they make mad, and by feigned hypocrisy and the deceits of the devil they beguile more men than do other fiends. May the Lord deliver His folk from the perils of these false friars….²³

Of still another class, whose violent deeds and cruel deceptions were the terror and shame of that age, he writes with equal vehemence. No modern reformer could have commanded more fiery invective:

But the mighty men and worldly rich that ever hungrily burn in getting possessions of others, and by their goods and riches grow in earthly greatness and worldly power—buying with little money what, after this passing substance, was of great value—or have received in the service of kings or great lords great gifts, without meed, that they might have delights and lusts with honours: let them hear not me but Saint Job: "Their days they led in pleasure, and to hell they fall in a point …".²⁴

Also here is forbidden trickery of weight or count, or of measure, or through usury, or violence or fear—as beadles or foresters do and ministers of the king—or through extortion, as lords do.²⁵

No man could write or speak so trenchantly and hope to escape reprisals. Those attacked returned with no less spirit to the charge. They gave Richard a bad time. Repeatedly he cries out because of his 'enemies'. These complaints reveal to us one of the sorest troubles of his life: he was acutely sensitive. Any act or word of unkindness—especially from those he trusted—cut him to the quick. In many places he bitterly laments the unfaithfulness of certain friends—'scorpions', 'backbiters'—and deplores his consequent disappointment and loneliness.

Like all men of his class this hermit had a horror of lechery. To account for this it is not necessary to resort to the Freudian technique. Richard was as healthy-minded as any normal man. In expressing himself as he did, his intention was to maintain and enforce the traditional ideals of purity. Hence on many of his pages—particularly in The Fire of Love—you find passages such as this:

Whiles a man weds not for pure love of God and virtue and chastity, but is busy to live in chastity and in array of all virtue, doubtless he gets to himself a great name in heaven; for as he ceases not to love God here, so in heaven he shall never cease from his praising. Wedlock soothly is good in itself; but when men constrain themselves under the band of matrimony for the fulfilling of their lust, they turn forsooth good into ill, and whereby they wean to profit, thereof they cease not to be worse.²⁶

So he warns would-be contemplatives against the 'sweet words of fair women'. He is also impatient with the extreme freakishness of feminine fashions. We have heard similar denunciations in our own days; they remind us that while times change, things remain much the same:

Next the women of our time are worthy of reproof that in such marvellous vanity have found new array for head and body, and have brought it in, so that they put beholders to dread and wonder. Not only against the sentence of the apostle in gold and dressing of the hair, in pride and wantonness, they go serving; but also against the honesty of man and nature ordained by God, they set broad horns upon their heads, and horrible greatness of wrought hair that grew not there, some of whom study to hide their foulness or increase their beauty and with painting of beguiling adultery they colour and whiten their faces.²⁷

Lest any one should think, because of these fulminations, that Richard was the slave of an anti-femi-nine complex, it should be pointed out that several contemporary writers deplore the vanity, slackness, and infidelity of certain classes of women. These vices were attributed, in no small degree, to the interference of the friars in domestic relationships. This became a serious menace, and produced endless trouble. Of course, Richard knew the value of good women, and handsomely acknowledges his debt to them.²⁸ The deep and abiding friendship, wherein he found true solace of soul, between him and Margaret, shows his real attitude towards women; so, too, did his spiritual labours for the nuns at Hampole.

Some of Rolle's characteristics will commend—it may be endear—him, to many in our day. We cannot but admire his fine spirit of independence. It is specially creditable in those days, and undoubtedly had important historical consequences. It comes out in such a simple act as his sitting for devotions: though frequently reproved for this by 'fond men', he quietly went on his own way.²⁹

We readily admit that a man of that temperament is not easy to control, or even to persuade; and doubtless he would be a thorn in the flesh of many, most of all, of those Church authorities who might try to curb him, and fasten him down to orthodox ways. The same spirit is seen in the following passage, where he is writing upon The Creed of Athanasius: here he distinctly reminds us of later Protestants:

This psalm tells us much of the Trinity, but it is not necessary for every man here to know it, since a man may be saved if he believes in God and hopes that God will teach him afterwards what is necessary…. For our creed should be mixed with love and faith, so that faith may teach our reason how good God is…. So love and good living are necessary to a right faith. But God forbid that men believe that every man who will be saved must believe expressly every word that is said here, for few or none are in that state, either Greeks or Latins. And yet, even for us, English fails to express what little we believe. For faith is of truth, which is before our languages. And, as we say, God gives faith both to children and to men although they have not the power to learn faith of their brethren.³⁰

His freedom of thought is also apparent in his attitude towards the ecclesiastical system of his times. While he recognizes that such practices as fasting, confession, penance, and regular attendance at mass are good as discipline and spiritual helps, he nowhere presses them as being necessary to salvation. His writings are markedly free from references to transubstantiation. He gives a more Protestant emphasis still when he says:

The name of God is taken in vain in many ways. With heart, false Christian men take it in vain who receive the Sacrament without grace in the soul.³¹

On the other hand, he never tires of stressing the constant necessity of prayer, meditation upon the Scriptures, and 'the practice of the Presence of God'. Then, as he often gratefully acknowledges, his personal devotion to the Saviour is the centre of his spiritual life: a fact that comes out most clearly in his choice little work, The Amending of Life. All this may be summed up by saying that Rolle stands for experimental religion as distinct from ecclesiastical, institutional, or sacramental. That is why I find it difficult to agree with Dom David Knowles when he says, 'His temperament and outlook were unusual, but he was neither an innovator, nor a reformer'.³² I think he partook of both.

One is bound to refer to the vein of humour running through Richard's works: a dry broad humour—he was a Yorkshireman. On many a page you see the hermit's homely smile, especially when he is giving your folly or vanity a gentle rub. He often administers raps like this:

How mayest thou for shame, who art but a servant, with many clothes and rich, follow thy Spouse and thy Lord, who went in a kirtle; and thou dost trail as much behind thee as all that He had on.³³

His works abound in deep, pithy, paradoxical sayings, expressed in clear and incisive speech, which make an indelible impression on the mind. Here is a short catena on Love:

What is love but the transforming of desire into the thing loved?

Therefore if our love be pure and perfect, whatever our heart loves it is God.

But, know it well, he himself knows not love that presumes to despise common nature in his brother; for he does wrong to his own condition that knows not his right in another.

Such truly as we now are to Him, such a one shall He then appear to us; to a lover certain lovely and desirable, and to them that loved not, hateful and cruel.

Hate thou no wretchedness on earth except that that thy pure love can cast over and disturb; for perfect love is strong as death, true love is hard as hell.³⁴

Enough has now been said to suggest something of the true lineaments of this Saint. Richard Rolle was a great man—of that there can be no doubt. Look at the men whose work he foreshadowed, it may be, directly influenced: Langland, who voiced the sufferings and needs of the common people; Chaucer, often referred to as the creator of English literature; and Wycliffe, the precursor of the Reformation. From these men sprang prevailing movements, whose seeds were in the heart of Richard Rolle. But Richard's real greatness was in himself, in those essential qualities which mark him as a born mystic: his devotion to the spiritual life, his achievement of holiness, his joy of fellowship with the Beloved, and his care for the friendless, the afflicted, and the perplexed. These are the authentic unveilings of Richard's inner nature: they win our love, and find full expression in 'his sweet writings, both treatises and little books, which all sound like sweetest music in the hearts of the devout'.

Notes

¹ An exhaustive list of Rolle's works has been prepared by Miss Hope Emily Allen: Writings ascribed to Richard Rolle, Hermit of Hampole. For his poetry readers may consult The Life and Lyrics of Richard Rolle, by Frances M. M. Comper.

²Fire of Love, Bk. I, Ch. 12.

³Selected Works, p. 85.

⁴ On this point Bede Frost has useful advice to spiritual directors: Art of Mental Prayer, pp. 225-6.

⁵Fire of Love, p. xlvi.

⁶Fire of Love, pp. xlviii and xlix.

⁷ Ibid., p. xlix.

⁸Fire of Love, Book I, Ch. 15.

⁹ Ibid., Prologue, p. 11.

¹⁰ Ibid., Book I, Ch. 14.

¹¹Fire of Love, Introduction, p. xv.

¹²An Introduction to the Psychology of Religion, p. 261.

¹³ empty.

¹⁴ bolt.

¹⁵Fire of Love, Book II, Chs. 10 and 4.

¹⁶ Ibid., Prologue, pp. 12-13.

¹⁷ Ibid., Book I, Ch. 5.

¹⁸Fire of Love, Book II, Ch. 3, and Selected Works, 'The Form of Living', Ch. 9.

¹⁹Selected Works, Ch. 8.

²⁰Fire of Love, Book II, Ch. 2.

²¹ Ibid., Book I, Ch. 21.

²² Ibid., Book I, Ch. 14.

²³Selected Works, 'Song of Zachary', p. 218.

²⁴Fire of Love, Book I, Ch. 30.

²⁵Selected Works, 'On the Ten Commandments', p. 77.

²⁶Fire of Love, Book I, Ch. 24.

²⁷Fire of Love, Book II, Ch. 9.

²⁸ Ibid., Book I, Ch. 12.

²⁹ Ibid., Book II, Ch. I.

³⁰Selected Works, p. 225.

³¹ Ibid., 'The Ten Commandments', p. 76.

³²The English Mystics, pp. 86-7.

³³Selected Works, 'The Commandment', p. 7.

³⁴The Fire of Love, Book I, Chs. 17, 19, 25; Book II, Chs. 8, II.