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SURVIVAL ANALYSIS with
INTERVAL-CENSORED DATA
A Practical Approach with
Examples in R, SAS, and BUGS
CHAPMAN & HALL/CRC
Interdisciplinar y Statistics Series
Series editors: N. Keiding, B.J.T. Morgan, C.K. Wikle, P. van der Heijden
Published titles
AGE-PERIOD-COHORT ANALYSIS: NEW MODELS, METHODS, AND
EMPIRICAL APPLICATIONS Y. Yang and K. C. Land
ANALYSIS OF CAPTURE-RECAPTURE DATA R. S. McCrea and B. J.T. Morgan
AN INVARIANT APPROACH TO STATISTICAL ANALYSIS OF SHAPES
S. Lele and J. Richtsmeier
ASTROSTATISTICS G. Babu and E. Feigelson
BAYESIAN ANALYSIS FOR POPULATION ECOLOGY R. King, B. J.T. Morgan,
O. Gimenez, and S. P. Brooks
BAYESIAN DISEASE MAPPING: HIERARCHICAL MODELING IN SPATIAL
EPIDEMIOLOGY, SECOND EDITION A. B. Lawson
BIOEQUIVALENCE AND STATISTICS IN CLINICAL PHARMACOLOGY
S. Patterson and B. Jones
CAPTURE-RECAPTURE METHODS FOR THE SOCIAL AND MEDICAL
SCIENCES
D. Böhning, P. G. M. van der Heijden, and J. Bunge
CLINICAL TRIALS IN ONCOLOGY,THIRD EDITION S. Green, J. Benedetti, A. Smith,
and J. Crowley
CLUSTER RANDOMISED TRIALS R.J. Hayes and L.H. Moulton
CORRESPONDENCE ANALYSIS IN PRACTICE,THIRD EDITION M. Greenacre
THE DATA BOOK: COLLECTION AND MANAGEMENT OF RESEARCH DATA
M. Zozus
DESIGN AND ANALYSIS OF QUALITY OF LIFE STUDIES IN CLINICAL TRIALS,
SECOND EDITION D.L. Fairclough
DYNAMICAL SEARCH L. Pronzato, H. Wynn, and A. Zhigljavsky
FLEXIBLE IMPUTATION OF MISSING DATA S. van Buuren
GENERALIZED LATENT VARIABLE MODELING: MULTILEVEL, LONGITUDI-
NAL, AND STRUCTURAL EQUATION MODELS A. Skrondal and S. Rabe-Hesketh
GRAPHICAL ANALYSIS OF MULTI-RESPONSE DATA K. Basford and J. Tukey
INTRODUCTION TO COMPUTATIONAL BIOLOGY: MAPS, SEQUENCES, AND
GENOMES M. Waterman
MARKOV CHAIN MONTE CARLO IN PRACTICE W. Gilks, S. Richardson, and
D. Spiegelhalter
Published titles
MEASUREMENT ERROR ANDMISCLASSIFICATION IN STATISTICS AND EPIDE-
MIOLOGY: IMPACTS AND BAYESIAN ADJUSTMENTS P. Gustafson
MEASUREMENT ERROR: MODELS, METHODS, AND APPLICATIONS
J. P. Buonaccorsi
MEASUREMENT ERROR: MODELS, METHODS, AND APPLICATIONS
J. P. Buonaccorsi
MENDELIAN RANDOMIZATION: METHODS FOR USING GENETIC VARIANTS
IN CAUSAL ESTIMATION S.Burgess and S.G. Thompson
META-ANALYSIS OF BINARY DATA USINGPROFILE LIKELIHOOD D. Böhning,
R. Kuhnert, and S. Rattanasiri
MISSING DATA ANALYSIS IN PRACTICE T. Raghunathan
MODERN DIRECTIONAL STATISTICS C. Ley and T. Verdebout
POWER ANALYSIS OF TRIALS WITH MULTILEVEL DATA M. Moerbeek and
S. Teerenstra
SPATIAL POINT PATTERNS: METHODOLOGY AND APPLICATIONS WITH R
A. Baddeley, E Rubak, and R. Turner
STATISTICAL ANALYSIS OF GENE EXPRESSION MICROARRAY DATA T. Speed
STATISTICAL ANALYSIS OF QUESTIONNAIRES: A UNIFIED APPROACH
BASED ON R AND STATA F. Bartolucci, S. Bacci, and M. Gnaldi
STATISTICAL AND COMPUTATIONAL PHARMACOGENOMICS R. Wu and M. Lin
STATISTICS IN MUSICOLOGY J. Beran
STATISTICS OF MEDICAL IMAGING T. Lei
STATISTICAL CONCEPTS AND APPLICATIONS IN CLINICAL MEDICINE
J. Aitchison, J.W. Kay, and I.J. Lauder
STATISTICAL AND PROBABILISTIC METHODS IN ACTUARIAL SCIENCE
P.J. Boland
STATISTICAL DETECTION AND SURVEILLANCE OF GEOGRAPHIC CLUSTERS
P. Rogerson and I.Yamada
STATISTICAL METHODS IN PSYCHIATRY AND RELATED FIELDS:
LONGITUDINAL, CLUSTERED, AND OTHER REPEATED MEASURES DATA
R. Gueorguieva
STATISTICS FOR ENVIRONMENTAL BIOLOGY AND TOXICOLOGY A. Bailer
and W. Piegorsch
STATISTICS FOR FISSION TRACK ANALYSIS R.F. Galbraith
SURVIVAL ANALYSIS WITH INTERVAL-CENSORED DATA: A PRACTICAL
APPROACH WITH EXAMPLES IN R, SAS, AND BUGS
K. Bogaerts, A. Komárek, and E. Lesaffre
VISUALIZING DATA PATTERNS WITH MICROMAPS D.B. Carr and L.W. Pickle
C hap m an & H al l / CR C
I n te rd is ci pl in ar y St a t i st i c s S e r i e s
Kris Bogaerts
Arnošt Komárek
Emmanuel Lesaffre
CRC Press
Taylor & Francis Group
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Boca Raton, FL 33487-2742
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Contents
Notation xxvii
Preface xxix
I Introduction 1
1 Introduction 3
vii
viii Contents
1.7.2 SAS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
V Appendices 481
A Data sets 483
B Distributions 489
References 547
xvii
xviii List of Tables
xxi
xxii List of Figures
11.2 Breast cancer study. Q-Q plots to contrast the ‘true la-
tent’ survival times with the ‘model-based replicated’ survival
times. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 363
11.3 Breast cancer study. PPCs corresponding to the range and
max gap test. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 364
11.4 Breast cancer: Smooth and Weibull survival functions . . . . 371
11.5 Signal Tandmobiel study. Estimated piecewise constant dy-
namic regression coefficients obtained from dynsurv. . . . . . 374
11.6 Signal Tandmobiel study. Estimated piecewise constant base-
line hazard functions obtained from dynsurv. . . . . . . . . . 376
11.7 Signal Tandmobiel study. Frequency of jump points obtained
from dynsurv. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 379
xxvii
xxviii Notation
I
It had doubtless not been merely absurd, as the wild winter
proceeded, to find one’s self so enamoured of the very name of the
South that one was ready to take it in any small atmospheric
instalment and to feel the echo of its voice in the yell of any engine
that happened not to drag one either directly North or directly West.
One tended at least, on these terms, in some degree, toward the land
where the citron blooms, and that was something to go on with, a
handful of small change accepted for the time as a pledge of great
gold pieces to come. It is astonishing, along the Atlantic coast, how,
from the moment the North ceases to insist, the South may begin to
presume; ever so little, no doubt, at first, yet with protrusive feelers
that tell how she only wants the right sensibility, the true waiting
victim, to play upon. It is a question certainly of where, on the so
frequently torpid stretch of shore I speak of, the North does cease to
insist; or perhaps I should more correctly say a question of when it
does. It appeared incapable of this fine tact almost anywhere, I
confess, at the season, the first supposedly relenting weeks, of my
facing in earnest to Florida; and the interest indeed of that slightly
grim adventure was to be in the way it ministered to the coincidence,
for me, of two quite opposed strains of reflection. On the one hand
nothing could “say” more to the subject long expatriated, condemned
by the terms of his exile to a chronic consciousness of grey northern
seas, than to feel how, from New York, or even from Boston, he had
but to sit still in his portentous car, had but to exercise a due
concentrated patience, in order to become aware, without personal
effort or suffered transfer, of that most charming of all watchable
processes, the gradual soft, the distinctively demoralized, conversion
of the soul of Nature. This conversion, if I may so put it without
profanity, has always struck me, on any southward course, as a
return, on the part of that soul, from a comparatively grim Theistic
faith to the ineradicable principle of Paganism; a conscious casting-
off of the dread theological abstraction—an abstraction still, even
with all Puritan stiffening—in the interest of multiplied, lurking,
familiar powers; divinities, graces, presences as unseen but as
inherent as the scents clinging to the folds of Nature’s robe. It would
be on such occasions the fault of the divine familiars themselves if
their haunts and shrines were empty, for earth and air and day and
night, as we go, still affect us as moods of their sympathy, still vibrate
to the breath of their passage; so that our progress, under the
expanding sun, resembles a little less a journey through space than a
retracing of the course of the ages.
These are fine fancies, however, and what is more to my point is
that the theory (so agreeable to entertain at Jersey City) of a direct
connection between the snow-banks and the orange-groves is a thing
of sweetness only so long as practically unshaken. There is
continuity, goodness knows, always in America—it is the last thing
that is ever broken: the question for the particular case is but
continuity of what? The basis of my individual hope had been that of
the reign of the orange-grove; but what it proved, at the crisis I
name, was positively that of the usurpation of the snow-bank. It was
possible, indubitably, in such conditions, to go to Charleston on
sledges—which made in fact, after all, for directness of connection. It
made moreover, by the same token, for a certain sinister light on the
general truth of our grand territorial unity. It was as if the winter, at
the end of February, abroad for a walk, had marched as promptly
and inevitably from the Arctic Circle to the Gulf as it might have
proceeded, with pride in its huge clear course, from the top of
Broadway to the Battery. This brought home again, as I myself went,
I remember, one of those three or four main ideas, suggested by the
recurrent conditions, which become as obsessions for the traveller in
the States—if he have a mind, that is, so indecently exposed to ideas:
the sense, constantly fed, and from a hundred sources, that, as
Nature abhors a vacuum, so it is of the genius of the American land
and the American people to abhor, whenever may be, a
discrimination. They are reduced, together, under stress, to making
discriminations, but they make them, I think, as lightly and scantily
as possible. With the lively insistence of that impression, even
though it quite undermined my fond view of a loose and
overreaching citronic belt, I found my actually monotonous way
beguiled. Practically, till I reached Charleston, this way, disclaiming
every invidious intent, refused to be dissociated from anything else
in the world: it was only another case of the painting with a big
brush, a brush steeped in crude universal white, and of the colossal
size this implement was capable of assuming. Gradations,
transitions, differences of any sort, temporal, material, social,
whether in man or in his environment, shrank somehow, under its
sweep, to negligible items; and one had perhaps never yet seemed so
to move through a vast simplified scheme. The illustration was once
more, in fine, of the small inherent, the small accumulated
resistance, in American air, to any force that does simplify. One
found the signs of such resistance as little in the prospect enjoyed
from the car-window as one distinguished them in the vain images of
the interior; those human documents, deciphered from one’s seat in
the Pullman, which yet do always, in their way, for the traveller,
constitute precious evidence. The spread of this single great wash of
winter from latitude to latitude struck me in fact as having its
analogy in the vast vogue of some infinitely-selling novel, one of
those happy volumes of which the circulation roars, periodically,
from Atlantic to Pacific and from great windy State to State, in the
manner, as I have heard it vividly put, of a blazing prairie fire; with
as little possibility of arrest from “criticism” in the one case as from
the bleating of lost sheep in the other. Everything, so to speak, was
monotonized, and the whole social order might have had its nose, for
the time, buried, by one levelling doom, in the pages that, after the
break of the spell, it would never know itself to mention again. Of
course, one remembered meanwhile, there were spells and spells,
and the free field—the particular freedom of which is the point of my
remark—would on occasion be just as open to the far-exhaled breath
of the South. That in fact is what I was to find it—though I thought all
delightfully—later in the season, when the freedom of the field struck
me as pure benefit. I was not, at the end of February, really to meet it
(as I had looked for it) before crossing the Florida line; but toward
the middle of June I was to meet it, enchantingly, at Baltimore, and
this, then, as I had not stopped there in my previous course, was,
even beyond the wondrous February Florida, to reveal to me, grateful
for any such favour, the South in her freshness. The freshness was in
part, no doubt—and even perhaps to extravagance—mine; I testify at
all events first for Baltimore.
It would probably be again the freshness, of this confessedly
subjective sort, it would probably be again the state of alert response
to any favour of the class just hinted at; but the immediate effect of
the Maryland capital was to place it, to my troubled vision, and quite
at the head of its group, in a category of images and memories small
at the best and the charm of which casts a shadow, none the less,
even as the rose wears a thorn. I refer indeed in this slightly
portentous figure to the mere familiar truth that if representative
values and the traceable or the imaginable connections of things
happen to have, on occasion, for your eyes and your intelligence, an
existence of any intensity, your case, as a traveller, an observer, a
reporter, is “bound” from the first, under the stirred impression, to
loom for you in some distressful shape. These representative values
and constructive connections, the whole of the latent vividness of
things, not only remain, under expression, subject to no definite
chemical test, no mathematical proof whatever, but almost turn their
charming backs and toss their wilful heads at one’s poor little array
of terms and equivalents. There thus immediately rises for the lone
visionary, betrayed and arrested in the very act of vision, that spectre
of impotence which dogs the footsteps of perception and whose
presence is like some poison-drop in the silver cup. Baltimore put on
for me, from the first glance, the form of the silver cup filled with the
mildest, sweetest decoction; but I had no sooner begun to taste of it
than I began to taste also of the infused bitter. It had, in its way,
during that first early hour or two of the summer evening, a perfect
felicity: which meant, for the touched intelligence, that it was full of
pleasantly-playing reference and reflection, that it exhaled on the
spot, as the word goes, an atmosphere; that it wore, to
contemplation, in fine, a character as marked with mild accents as
some faded old uniform is marked with tarnished buttons and braid
—albeit these sources of interest were too closely of the texture to be
snipped off, in the guise of patterns or relics, by any mere sharp
shears of journalism.
I arrived late in the day, and the day had been lovely; I alighted at
a large fresh peaceful hostelry, imposingly modern yet quietly
affable, and, having recognized the deep, soft general note, even from
my windows, as that of a kind of mollified vivacity, I sought the
streets with as many tacit questions as I judged they would tolerate,
or as the waning day would allow me to put. It took but that hour, as
I strolled in the early eventide, to give me the sense of the
predicament I have glanced at; that of finding myself committed to
the view of Baltimore as quite insidiously “sympathetic,” quite
inordinately amiable—which amounted, in other words, to the
momentous proposition that she was interesting—and still of
wondering, by the same stroke, how I was to make any such
statement plausible. Character is founded on elements and features,
so many particular parts which conduce to an expression. So I
walked about the dear little city looking for the particular parts—all
with the singular effect of rather failing to find them and with my
impression of felicity at the same time persistently growing. The
felicity was certainly not that of a mere blank; there must accordingly
have been items and objects, signs and tokens, there must have been
causes of so charming a consequence; there must have been the little
numbers (not necessarily big, if only a tall enough column) for the
careful sum on my slate. What happened then, remarkably, was that
while I mechanically so argued my impression was fixing itself by a
wild logic of its own, and that I was presently to see how it would,
when once settled to a certain intensity, snap its fingers at warrants
and documents. If it was a question of a slate the slate was used, at
school, I remembered, for more than one purpose; so that mine, by
my walk’s end, instead of a show of neat ciphering, exhibited simply
a bold drawn image—which had the merit moreover of not being in
the least a caricature. The moral of this was precious—that of the fine
impunity with which, if one but had sensibility, the ciphering could
be neglected and in fact almost contemned: always, that is (and only)
with one’s finer wits about one. Without them one was at best, really,
nowhere—even with “items” by the thousand; so that the place
became, quite adorably, a lesson in the use of that resource. It would
be “no good” to a journalist—for he is nowhere, ever, without his
items; but it would be everything, always, to the mere restless
analyst. He might by its aid stand against all comers; and this alike in
pleasure and in pain, in the bruised or in the soothed condition. That
was the real way to work things out, and to feel it so brought home
would by itself sufficiently crown this particular small pilgrimage.
II
If my sensibility yielded so completely to Baltimore, however, I
should add, this was no doubt partly because the air seemed from the
first to breathe upon it a pledge of no bruises. I mounted, in the
golden June light, the neatest, amplest, emptiest street-vista, the
builded side of a steepish hill, and, having come in due course to a
spacious summit, laid out with monumental elegance and completely
void, for the time, of the human footstep, I saw that to suffer in any
fibre I should have positively, somewhere, to hurl myself upon the
spears. Not a point protruded then or afterwards; and the cunning of
the restless analyst is essentially such that, with friction long enough
in abeyance to leave him a start, he is already astride of his happier
thesis, seated firm, having “elected” to be undismountable, and
riding it as hard as it will go. The absence of friction, on my
monumental hilltop and in the prospects it overhung, constituted, I
was to find, an absolute circus-ring for this exercise; and it is much
to be able to say, while performing in the circus (even if but mainly to
the public of one’s own conscience), that one has never had the sense
of a safer hour. The safety of Baltimore, I should indeed mention,
consisted perhaps a little overmuch, during that first flush, in its
apparently vacant condition: it affected me as a sort of perversely
cheerful little city of the dead; and from the dead, naturally, comes
no friction. Was it cheerful, that is, or was it only resigned and
discreet?—with the manner of the good breeding that doesn’t
publicly prate of family troubles. I found myself handling, in
imagination, these large quantities only because, as I suppose, it was
impossible not to remember on that spot of what native generation
one had come. It took no greater intensity of the South than
Baltimore could easily give to figure again, however fadedly, and all
as a ghostly presence, the huge shadow of the War, and to reproduce
that particular bloodstained patch of it which, in the very first days,
the now so irresponsible and absent community about me had flung
across the path of the North. This one echo of old Time made the
connections, for the instant, all vibrate, and the scene before me,
somehow, as it stood, had to account for the great revolution. It was
as if that, for the restless analyst, had to be disposed of before
anything else: whereby, precisely, didn’t the amenity of his
impression partly spring from the descent there, on the spot, in a
quick white flash, of the most august of the Muses? It was History in
person that hovered, just long enough for me to recognize her and to
read, in her strange deep eyes, her intelligence at least of everything.
It might have been there fairly as reassurance. “Yes, they have lived
with me, and it has done them good, and we have buried together all
their past—about which, wise creature as I am, I allow them, of
course, all piety. But this—what you make out around us—is their
real collective self, which I am delighted to commend to you. I’ve
found Baltimore a charming patient.” That was, in ten minutes, what
it had come to; as if the brush of the sublime garment had by itself
cleared the air. If there was a fine warm hush everywhere it was
indeed partly that of this historic peace.
But for the rest it only meant that the world was at such a season
out of town. Houses were everywhere closed, and the neat
perspectives, all domiciliary and all, as I have hinted, tending mildly
to a vague elegance, were the more neat and more elegant, though
doubtless also the more mild and the more vague, for their being so
inanimate. A certain vividness of high decency seemed in spite of it
to possess them, and this suggestion of the real southern glow, yet
with no southern looseness, was clearly something by itself—all
special and local and all, or almost all, expressed in repeated vistas of
little brick-faced and protrusively door-stepped houses, which,
overhung by tall, regular umbrage, suggested rows of quiet old ladies
seated, with their toes tucked-up on uniform footstools, under the
shaded candlesticks of old-fashioned tea-parties. The little ladylike
squares, though below any tide-mark of fashion, were particularly
frequent; in which case it was as if the virtuous dames had drawn
together round a large green table, albeit to no more riotous end than
that each should sit before her individual game of patience. One
sounds inevitably the note of the “virtue”—so little, in general, can
any picture of American town-appearance hang together without it.
It amounts, everywhere, to something intenser than the implied
absence of “vice”; it amounts to a sort of registered absence of the
conception or the imagination of it, and still more of the provision
for it; though, all the while, as one goes and comes, one feels that no
community can really be as purged of peccant humours as the typical
American has for the most part found itself foredoomed to look. It
has been caught in the mechanism of that consistency—to an effect of
convenience, doubtless, much more than to any other; and has thus,
in the whole vast connection, a relation to appearances that is all its
own. The “European” scene, at a thousand points, looks all its
sophistications straight out at us—or looks, in other words, at least as
perverse as it practically is. The American, on the other hand,
expressing physiognomically no sophistications at all—though plenty
of quite common candours, crudities and vulgarities—makes one ask
if the cash-register, the ice-cream freezer, the lightning-elevator, the
“boys’ paper,” and other such overflows, do truly represent the sum
of its passions. Incontestably, at all events, this immensely
ingenuous aspect counts, for any country and any scheme of life, as a
great force, just as the appearance of the stale and the congested
residing in the comparatively battered mask of experience counts as
a weakness: to conceive which the mind’s eye has only to fix a little
the colossal American face grimacing with anything of a subtler
consciousness. That image, if actually presented, would become, as
we feel, appalling. The inexorable fate of the countenance in question
may be so to learn to grimace in time, but though few processes are
slow, in the United States, and few exhibitions not contagious, any
such transition, assuredly, will not be rapid, any more than any such
tendency will easily predominate.
All of which would have carried me far from the simple sweetness
of Baltimore, were it not that, for the restless analyst, there is no
such thing as an unrelated fact, no such thing as a break in the chain
of relations. Many a perceived American aspect, for that matter,
would by itself have little to give; the student of manners, in other
words, to make it presentable—by which I understand to make it
sufficiently interesting—must first discover connections for it and
then borrow from these, if possible, the elements of a wardrobe. And
though it should sound a little monstrous, moreover, one had
somehow not been prepared for so delicate an effect of propriety;
since there are cases too, indubitably, in which propriety can show
for almost as coarse as anything else. It couldn’t have been, either,
that one had expected any positive air of licence; but the fact was, I
suppose, that, for a constitutional story-seeker, a certain still, small
shock, a prompt need of readjustment of view, was involved in one’s
finding the element of the bourgeois crop up, so inveterately, in
latitudes generally associated, so far as one knew them elsewhere,
with some perceptible sacrifice to the sway of the senses. I had
already, at this date, as I have noted, dipped deep into our own
uttermost South, and had there had to reckon with that first slight
disconcertment awaiting the observer whose southern categories
happen to have been wholly European. His simplest expression for
the anomaly he meets is that he sees the citronic belt all
incongruously Protestantized: that big word (for so small a
bewilderment perhaps) sticks to him and worries him—almost as
absurdly, I grant, as if he had expected Charleston and Savannah to
betray the moral accent of Naples or Seville. He had not, assuredly,
done this; but he had as little allowed, in imagination, for the
hyperborean note. A South without church-fronts and church-
interiors had been superficially as strange, in its way, as a
Methodism of the sub-tropic night, a Methodism of the orange and
the palm. Such were the treacheries of association; though what
indeed would observation be, for interest, if it were not, just by these
armed surprises, constantly touched with adventure? The beauty of
Baltimore was, all this time, that one could feel it as potentially
harmonizing; the citronic belt would not embrace here more
Methodism than might consort with it, nor the Methodism pretend
to cultivate with any success the hibiscus and the pomegranate.
That I could entertain so many incoherent ideas in half-an-hour
was in any case a proof that I felt, for the occasion, left in possession;
quite as the visitor as yet unintroduced may feel during some long
preliminary wait in a drawing-room. He looks at the furniture,
pictures, books; he studies in these objects the character of the house
and of his hosts, and if there be some domestic treasure visibly more
important and conspicuous than the others, it engages his attention
as either with a fatal or an engaging force. The top of the central
eminence, with its air of an ample plan and of sweeping the rest of
the circle, figured the documentary parlour and my enjoyed leave to
touch and examine; so that when it was a question, in particular, of
the monument to Washington, the high column, in the middle, with
its surmounting figure and its spreading architectural base, this
presence was, for all the world, like that of some vast and stately old-
fashioned clock, a decorative “piece,” an heirloom from generations
now respectably remote, occupying an inordinate space in
proportion to the other conveniences. The ornamental, the
“important” clock is apt to be in especial, at such a crisis, a tell-tale
object; its range of testimony, of possible treachery, is immense, and
cases are not unknown, I gather, in which it has put the doubting
visitor to flight. The greater the felicity, thereby, for the overtopping
Baltimore timepiece, which hung about in mild reassurance,
promptly aware that it wasn’t a bit vulgar, but, on the contrary, of a
pleasant jejune academic pomp that suggested to the fancy some
melancholy, some spectral, man-at-arms mounting guard at the
angles, in due military form, over suspected treasures of Style. One
could imagine, somehow, under the summer stars, the mystic vigil of
these mild heroes; and one could above all catch again the
interesting hint of the terms on which, in the United States, the
consecration of time may be found operating. It has a trick there all
of its own, thanks to which the effect of duration is produced very
much as, before the footlights, the prestidigitator produces the effect
of extracting a live fowl from a hat. This is a law under which, the
material permitting, the decades count as centuries and the centuries
as æons. The misfortune is that too often the material, futile and
treacherous, doesn’t permit. Yet the law is in the happiest cases none
the less strikingly vindicated. There, for instance—to pursue
undiscouraged my figure of the guest in the empty parlour—were the
best houses, the older, the ampler, the more blandly quadrilateral;
which in spite of their still faces met one’s arrest, at their
commodious corners and other places of vantage, with an
unmistakable manner. The quiet assurance of a position in the world
—the world, the only one, with which they were concerned—testified
again, in an interesting way, to the simple source of their
impressiveness, showing how almost any modern interval could have
been long enough to make them nobly antique if such interval might
only have been vulgar enough. The age of “brown stone” was to have
found no difficulty in that; the prolongation of its rage for a quarter
of a century amply sufficed to dignify every antecedent thing it had
spared (as the survivors of reigns of Terror grow by mere survival
distinguished); while, steeped in dishonour up to the eyebrows, that
is up to its false cornices of painted and sanded wood and iron, it was
never to enjoy, for itself, the advantage it elsewhere conferred.
Nothing has ever been vulgar enough to rehabilitate the odd
ugliness, so distinct, yet after all so undemonstrable, of this luckless
material; the way one shuddered, in particular, at the touch, on
balustrade and elsewhere, of the sanded iron! It has been followed by
other rages and other errors, but even the grace of the American
time-measure can do nothing for it.
III
It was of course the fact that the “values” here were all such, and
such alone, as might be reflected from the social conditions and the
state of manners, even if reflected, for the hour, almost into empty
space—it was this that gave weight to each perceived appearance and
permitted none to show as trivial enough to project me, in reaction
or in inanition, upon the comparative obviousness of the “burnt
district.” There is almost always a burnt district to eke out the
interest of an American city—it is the pride of the citizen and the
resource of the visitor when all else fails; and I can scarce, I think,
praise Baltimore so liberally as to note that this was the last of her
beauties I was conscious of. She had lost by fire, a few months before,
the greater part of her business quarter, which she was now rapidly
and artfully calling back to existence; but the entertainment she
offered me was guiltless, ever so gracefully and gallantly guiltless, as
it struck me, of reference, even indirect, to the majesty either of ruin
or of remedy. One was, on further acquaintance, thoroughly
beguiled, but the burnt district had so little to do with it that the days
came and went without my so much as discovering its whereabouts.
Wonderful little Baltimore, in which, whether when perched on a
noble eminence or passing from one seat of the humanities, one seat
of hospitality, to another—a process mainly consisting indeed, as it
seemed to me, of prompt drives through romantic parks and
woodlands that were all suburban yet all Arcadian—I caught no
glimpse of traffic, however mild, nor spied anything “tall” at the end
of any vista. This was in itself really a benediction, since I had
nowhere, from the first, been infatuated with tallness; I was
infatuated only with the question of manners, in their largest sense—
to the finer essence of which tallness had already defined itself to me
as positively abhorrent. What occurred betimes, and ever so happily,
was simply that the delicate blank of those first hours flushed into
animation, and that with this indeed the embroidery of the fine
canvas turned thick and rich. It came back again, no doubt, in the
inveterate way, to the University presence, and to the eagerness with
which, on the American scene, as I tire not, you see, of repeating, the
visiting spirit, on such occasions, throws itself straight into
sanctuary. It breaks in at any cost, this distracted appetite, and,
recomposing the elements to their greater distinction, if need be, and
with a high imaginative hand, makes of the combination obtained
the only firm standpoint for the rest of the view. It has even in this
connection an occasional sharp chill; air-borne rumours reach it of
perversities and treacheries, conspiracies possibly hatching in the
very bosom of the temple and against its very faith. One hears of the
University idea threatened in more than one of the great institutions
—reduced to some pettifogging conception of a short brisk term and
a simplified culture; a lively thrifty training for “business-
competition.” This is a blow to the collective fond fancies set
humming, at once, in almost any scholastic shade—under the effect
of which one can but give one’s own scant scholar’s hood, while one
winces, a further protesting pull over abashed brows. It would have
been a question, very much, of what I call breaking-in (into the
Johns Hopkins) at this moment, had I not here been indulged, in all
liberality, with an impression the more charming, in a manner, for
the fact of halls and courts brooding in vacation stillness. Perversely
adorable always—and I scarce know why—the late afternoon light in
deserted haunts of study; with the secret of supreme dignity lurking,
above all, in high, dusky, wainscoted chambers where the sound of
one’s footfall lingers, to one’s pleasure, like a caress, and where
portraits of the appurtenant worthies, the heroes and patrons, grow
vague in the twilight. It is a tribute to the forces of idealism lurking
again and again, over the country, in the amenity of the general
Collegiate appearance, that the last thing these conditions overtly
suggest, or seem to accept as their imputed virtue, is this
precipitation of the young intelligence into the mere vociferous
market.
I scarcely know why, however, I should have appeared, even by
waving it away, to make room at our banquet for the possible
skeleton of the false, the barbarizing, note; since the natural pitch of
Baltimore, the pictorial, so to speak, as well as the social, struck me,
once a certain contact established, as that of disinterested sensibility,
the passion of which her University is the highest and clearest
example. There was on the splendid Sunday in particular a warm,
soft fusion of aspects—a confusion, in fact, while I now gather it in—
which seems to defy, though all unconsciously, the sharper edge of
discrimination and to offer itself, insistently, as a general wash of
brave Southern shade, the play of a liquid brush of which the North
knows nothing. The episodes melt together, yet they also, under a
little pressure, come happily apart, and over the large sun-chequered
picture the generous boughs hang heavy. Admirable I found them,
the Maryland boughs, and so immediately disposed about the
fortunate town, by parkside and lonely lane, by trackless hillside and
tangled copse, that the depth of rural effect becomes at once
bewildering. You wonder at the absent transitions, you look in vain
for the shabby fringes—or at least, under my spell, I did; you have
never seen, on the lap of nature, so large a burden so neatly
accommodated. Baltimore sits there as some quite robust but almost
unnaturally good child might sit on the green apron of its nurse, with
no concomitant crease or crumple, no uncontrollable “mess,” by the
nursery term, to betray its temper. It was with something like that
figure before me that I kept communing, as I say, with the bland
presence. Even a morning hour or two at the great University
Hospital—for one’s experience of the higher tone, one’s irrepressible
pursuit of charm, in America, has, to its great enrichment, these odd
sequences—even that beginning of the day did nothing to obtrude the
ugly or to overemphasize the real; it simply contributed, under some
perversion that I can neither explain nor defend, to the general grace
of the picture. Why should the great Hospital, with its endless
chambers of woe, its whole air as of most directly and advisedly
facing, as the hospitals of the world go, the question of the
immensities of pain—why should such an impression actually have
turned, under the spell, to fine poetry, to a mere shining vision of the
conditions, the high beauty of applied science? The conditions,
positively, as I think of them after the interval, make the poetry—the
large art, above all, by which, in a place bristling with its terrible tale,
everything was made to seem fair, and fairest even while it most
intimately concurred in the work. In short if the Hospital was
fundamentally Universitarian—as of the domain of the great Medical
Faculty—so it partook for me, in its own way, of the University
glamour, and so the tempered morning, and the shaded splendour,
and the passive rows, the grim human alignments that became, in
their cool vistas, delicate “symphonies in white,” and, more even
than anything else, the pair of gallant young Doctors who ruled, for
me, so gently, the whole still concert, abide with me, collectively, as
agents of the higher tone.
No example could speak more of that enlargement of function, for
constituting some picture of life, which many an American element
or object, many an institution, has to be felt as practising—usually
with high success. It comes back, one notes for the thousandth time,
to that redistribution and reconsecration of values, of representative
weight, which it is the interesting thing, over the land, to see take
effect—to see in special take all the effect of which it is capable. There
are a thousand “European” values that are absent, and, whether as a
consequence or not of that, there are innumerable felt solutions of
the social continuity. The instinct of missing—by which I mean not at
all either the consciousness or the confession of lacking—keeps up,
however, its own activity; for the theory at least of the native spirit is
to consent wittingly to no privation. It has a genius, the native spirit,
for desiring things of the existence, and even of the possibility of
which it is actually unaware, and it views the totality of nature and
the general life of man, I think, as more than anything else
commissioned and privileged to wait on these awakenings. Thus new
values arise as expansion proceeds; the marked character of which,
for comparative sociology, is that they are not at all as other values.
What they “count” for is the particular required American quantity;
and we see again and again how large a quantity symbol and figure
have to represent. The interesting thing is that, on the spot, the
representation does practically cover the ground: it covers elements
that in communities employing a different scale require for their
expression (and perhaps sometimes to an effect of waste) a much
greater number of terms. Hence the constant impression of elasticity,
and that of those pressures of necessity under which value and
virtue, character and quantity, greatness and glory even, to a
considerable extent, are imputed and projected. There has to be a
facility for the working of any social form—facility of comparison and
selection in some communities, facility of rapid conversion in others
That is where the American material is elastic, where it affects one,
as a whole, in the manner of some huge india-rubber cloth fashioned
for “field” use and warranted to bear inordinate stretching.
One becomes aware thus wherever one turns, both of the tension
and of the resistance; everything and every one, all objects and
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