Callista : a Tale of the Third Century — Reading Notes
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In no province of the vast Roman empire, as it existed in the middle of the third century, did Nature wear a richer or a more joyous garb than she displayed in Proconsular Africa, a territory of which Carthage was the metropolis, and Sicca might be considered the centre. The latter city, which was the seat of a Roman colony, lay upon a precipitous or steep bank, which led up along a chain of hills to a mountainous track in the direction of the north and east. In striking contrast with this wild and barren region was the view presented by the west and south, where for many miles stretched a smiling champaign, exuberantly wooded, and varied with a thousand hues, till it was terminated at length by the successive tiers of the Atlas, and the dim and fantastic forms of the Numidian mountains. The immediate neighbourhood of the city was occupied by gardens, vineyards, corn-fields, and meadows, crossed or encircled here by noble avenues of trees or the remains of primeval forests, there by the clustering groves which wealth and luxury had created. This spacious plain, though level when compared with the northern heights by which the city was backed, and the peaks and crags which skirted the southern and western horizon, was discovered, as light and shadow travelled with the sun, to be diversified with hill and dale, upland and hollow; while orange gardens, orchards, olive and palm plantations held their appropriate sites on the slopes or the bottoms. Through the mass of green, which extended still more thickly from the west round to the north, might be seen at intervals two solid causeways tracking their persevering course to the Mediterranean coast, the one to the ancient rival of Rome, the other to Hippo Regius in Numidia. Tourists might have complained of the absence of water from the scene; but the native peasant would have explained to them that the eye alone had reason to be discontented, and that the thick foliage and the uneven surface did but conceal what mother earth with no niggard bounty supplied. The Bagradas, issuing from the spurs of the Atlas, made up in depth what it wanted in breadth of bed, and ploughed the rich and yielding mould with its rapid stream, till, after passing Sicca in its way, it fell into the sea near Carthage. It was but the largest of a multitude of others, most of them tributaries to it, deepening as much as they increased it. While channels had been cut from the larger rills for the irrigation of the open land, brooks, which sprang up in the gravel which lay against the hills, had been artificially banked with cut stones or paved with pebbles; and where neither springs nor rivulets were to be found, wells had been dug, sometimes to the vast depth of as much as 200 fathoms, with such effect that the spurting column of water had in some instances drowned the zealous workmen who had been the first to reach it. And, while such were the resources of less favoured localities or seasons, profuse rains descended over the whole region for one half of the year, and the thick summer dews compensated by night for the daily tribute extorted by an African sun.
At various distances over the undulating surface, and through the woods, were seen the villas and the hamlets of that happy land. It was an age when the pride of architecture had been indulged to the full; edifices, public and private, mansions and temples, ran off far away from each market-town or borough, as from a centre, some of stone or marble, but most of them of that composite of fine earth, rammed tight by means of frames, for which the Saracens were afterwards famous, and of which specimens remain to this day, as hard in surface, as sharp at the angles, as when they first were finished. Every here and there, on hill or crag, crowned with basilicas and temples, radiant in the sun, might be seen the cities of the province or of its neighbourhood, Thibursicumber, Thugga, Laribus, Siguessa, Sufetula, and many others; while in the far distance, on an elevated table-land under the Atlas, might be discerned the Colonia Scillitana, famous about fifty years before the date of which we write for the martyrdom of Speratus and his companions, who were beheaded at the order of the proconsul for refusing to swear by the genius of Rome and the emperor.
John Henry Newman's Callista opens with a poetic epigraph by De Vere that immediately establishes a central tension: the solitary nature of the soul versus the desire for human connection. The novel's diction throughout reflects this preoccupation with interior states, often rendering physical settings as extensions of spiritual conditions. Newman, writing as a Catholic convert, employs a narrator who moves between detached observation and sympathetic inwardness, particularly in scenes of persecution.
Diction of Division
Newman's word choices repeatedly emphasize separation and boundary. The mob is described as 'infuriated rabble,' their actions driven by 'malignant hatred.' In contrast, Christian characters are associated with 'privacy,' 'strictness,' and 'religious strictness.' The widow's household is 'secluded,' her children kept 'from all bad sights and bad company.' This lexical field creates a moral geography where physical space mirrors spiritual allegiance. The rioters 'gazed with envy and cupidity' at noble mansions, while Christians are 'sheltered' or 'hidden.' Even the sacristan who apostatizes is 'miserable,' a word that conveys both pity and contempt. Newman's diction thus constructs an ethical landscape where language itself becomes a marker of faith or its absence.
Dialogue as Confrontation
Dialogue in the excerpts is sparse but pointed. The mob's cry 'Bread, bread!' reduces their demand to a primal need, contrasting with the Christian widow's 'heartrending cries and supplications' for her children. When the Tertullianist seizes the idol, he acts without words—his 'sign of the cross' and the breaking of the idol over his knee are a silent sermon. Newman reserves direct speech for moments of extreme pressure, as when the sacristan is forced to worship: 'he worshipped the ass, he worshipped the idol, and he worshipped the genius of the emperor.' The repetition of 'worshipped' underscores the mechanical, coerced nature of pagan ritual. Dialogue, when it appears, is stripped of ornament, functioning as a blunt instrument of conflict.
Description as Moral Index
Newman's descriptive passages do more than set scenes; they encode moral judgments. The Christian chapel, 'long been turned to other purposes,' is now 'a store of casks and leather bottles,' its sacred function erased by commerce. The widow's 'modest apartment' is 'soon swarming with enemies,' the verb 'swarming' dehumanizing the attackers. Physical details carry theological weight: the children's ages 'between thirteen and seven' are noted precisely, emphasizing their vulnerability. The mother is 'thrown senseless upon the pavement,' the passive construction highlighting her powerlessness. Even the setting of the aristocratic quarter, with its 'closed gates' and 'high walls,' suggests a fortress under siege. Description in Callista is never neutral; it is always a vehicle for Newman's moral vision.
Structure of Escalation
The narrative structure in the excerpted passages moves from individual apostasy to collective violence. The sacristan's forced worship and death are followed by the Tertullianist's solitary defiance, then the attack on the widow's family. Each episode intensifies: first a single victim, then a pair, then a household. The mob's motives shift from 'revenge upon Christians' to 'prospect of plunder,' showing how religious fervor degenerates into greed. Newman controls pacing through short, declarative sentences: 'The poor wretch obeyed'; 'They found him, and dragged him'; 'The whole five were carried off in triumph.' The rhythm accelerates as the violence becomes more systematic. This structural escalation mirrors the novel's broader concern with the inexorable pressure of persecution on individual conscience.
Readers attentive to Newman's authorial choices will find a work where every adverb and adjective serves a theological purpose. The novel rewards close attention to its verbal texture, particularly in scenes of conflict where language itself becomes a battleground. Approach Callista not as a historical reconstruction but as a dramatized meditation on the costs of belief, rendered through a prose that is at once precise and passionate.
Reading about Newman’s Roman Africans, I remembered sitting with my grandmother, her fingers tracing a worn Bible’s spine. The rebellion of the Princess — Reading Notes felt like that same quiet, slow turning—both books hold sorrow without rushing it, letting faith and doubt breathe side by side. I finished one and simply sat, the lamp humming.
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