43 2 



Garden and Forest. 



[Number 349. 



be on the decline. It is a good time, too, for a walk of 

 inspection through young plantations to mark the trees 

 which have been overshadowed and stunted by their 

 stronger neighbors or crowded out of shape. Such trees 

 should be removed to give the other ones free chance of 

 expansion, for whenever trees begin to interfere and strug- 

 gle with each other for the mastery, it is best to stop the 

 battle at once. 



This may seem to be wandering from our text, but it 

 should be remembered that transplanting is only one event 

 in the life of a cultivated tree, and that after-care is quite as 

 important. Of course, every precaution should be used that 

 its vitality may receive no shock in removal, but it should 

 be fed and made happy in its new surroundings as sys- 

 tematically and judiciously as if it were a growing animal, 

 or the result will be a lasting disappointment and regret. 



Climbing Plants on Boston Buildings. 



PROBABLY nowhere else in this country does the ser- 

 vice performed by climbing and clinging plants in 

 clothing and adorning the walls of buildings receive such 

 good illustration as in and around Boston. Ampelopsis 

 tricuspidata was first domesticated here, and has so long 

 been a striking feature of this city as to gain for it through- 

 out the country the familiar name of " Boston Ivy." This 

 name, however, is seldom heard here, where it is most 

 commonly known as the "Japanese Ivy " or the "Japanese 

 Ampelopsis." 



Ampelopsis tricuspidata had probably been cultivated 

 hereabout for several years before it became particularly 

 noticeable, but its popularity dates back to the Centennial 

 year of 1876. Although for years familiar with all parts of 

 the city and a close observer of such things, I had never 

 noticed this plant until my return in 1877, after an absence 

 of a year or so, when I was at once struck by its preva- 

 lence. It did not become remarkably common hereabout 

 until about 1880. Now, however, it is seen everywhere, and is 

 even more prevalent than its cousin, our beautiful native Vir- 

 ginia Creeper. It has become as characteristic of our city 

 and suburban scenes as the White Pine is of our rural New 

 England landscape, and one of our foremost authorities 

 once told me that he regarded it as the greatest horticul- 

 tural acquisition of the century. 



Occasionally its use is excessive, but its luxuriant habit 

 is seldom encouraged to an undesirable extent. This is 

 probably due to the fact that one of its most conspicuous 

 services consists in the concealment, or the amelioration, 

 of architectural ugliness, and, fortunately, the people most 

 liable to employ it to excess are generally the ones most 

 responsible for bad architecture. Ugly objects are so gen- 

 erally made graceful and picturesque by the kindly offices 

 of the Japanese Ampelopsis that the instances of its over- 

 liberal use are usually merciful concealments. The Japa- 

 nese Ivy, or, still better for this particular purpose, the 

 Virginia Creeper, could be usefully employed to drape the 

 electric-wire poles, whose gaunt interminable processions 

 make hideous the highways throughout the country, and 

 convert them, for a large portion of the year, at least, into 

 objects of beauty, if the necessities of the linemen, with 

 their climbing-spurs, did not forbid. This might, however, 

 be done with poles that require no climbing, as the posts 

 that support the trolley-wires of the electric-railways, par- 

 ticularly along a road that has been adorned with central- 

 lawn spaces, like the boulevards of Beacon Street or Com- 

 monwealth Avenue. 



As a means for the mitigation of bad architecture, the 

 Japanese Ampelopsis on our Museum of Fine Arts fur- 

 nishes an instructive example, though it is not carried far 

 enough. It clambered bravely over the ugly walls of 

 parti-colored terra cotta and brick, and for a while so 

 nearly effaced the unspeakable reliefs of the second story 

 as to give them the charm of indefiniteness. But the trus- 

 tees have since restricted the creeper to the first story. 



The excessive use of this plant finds unfortunate illus- 

 tration on the walls of the home of the Somerset Club, 

 where it was earliest conspicuous, and admired. Upon the 

 plain, but noble, facade of whitish granite the decorative 

 effect of the climber was at first indescribably charming, 

 whether in the verdure of spring and summer, the brilliant 

 hues of autumn, or the delicate tracery of its branches in 

 winter, always showing the contrast of delicate, clinging 

 growth against the light-toned, massive masonry. But 

 now the rampant growth covers nearly every foot of the 

 beautiful front, depriving the picture of the charm of con- 

 trast, and in the growing season imparting an aspect of 

 instability to the substantial structure, particularly when 

 the wind trembles the screen of foliage. At such times a 

 building that is entirely covered with verdure becomes 

 apparently as weak as its external mantle, recalling the 

 effect of the scenery in a theatre when the actors chance 

 to brush against it and shake its castles, fortresses and 

 cottages. 



Next door to the Somerset Club the front of a handsome 

 old brick mansion is exquisitely draped with the different 

 forms of foliage, and the harmonious blending and inter- 

 weaving of the distinct shades of green of the Japanese 

 Ampelopsis, the Virginia Creeper and the Wistaria. Against 

 a background of rich old red brick the effect of the cling- 

 ing and trailing growth is superb, and makes one of the 

 best examples of verdurous house-clothing in Boston. 



Probably the building most famous for its exuberant, but 

 not in the least excessive, growth of Ampelopsis is the Old 

 South Meeting-house, where it creeps over an enormous 

 expanse of gray old walls and high up on the tower, reliev- 

 ing the severity of the Puritan architecture with its gentle 

 touch. The suggestion of nature amid the piles of neigh- 

 boring brick and stone in the heart of the business section 

 of the town does much to heighten the charm of the Old 

 Souths garb of greenery. And this leads me to express 

 dissent from only one point in the admirable editorial on 

 the general subject of the use of clinging growths in com- 

 bination with architecture that appeared in Garden and 

 Forest a few months ago. The New York Post-office was 

 instanced as one of the buildings where such a growth 

 would not be in place. But to my mind it would be pecu- 

 liarly appropriate there, for the reason that the architecture 

 of that building is intensely offensive. If, by any means, 

 an ample growth of Ampelopsis or any other creeping 

 things could only be coaxed to embower a goodly portion 

 of its facades, it would not only mitigate the inartistic 

 character of the edifice, but it would serve to unite it with 

 the remnant of the neighboring City Hall Park, from which 

 its site was unrighteously taken, and in a measure atone 

 for the perpetual affront of its existence. 



"The most beautiful thing in all Boston!" is what a 

 friend from the west once declared of the old gateway to 

 the Granary Burying-ground, with its graceful mantle of 

 Japanese Ampelopsis. The old burying-ground itself is a 

 wonderfully calm and peaceful spot. There is an entire 

 absence of the discordant features of some modern ceme- 

 teries. The modest gray tombstones of slate that are scat- 

 tered over its surface seem to be a sort of spontaneous 

 growth, as natural as the Elm-trees in whose shade they 

 stand, and whose beauty has been remarkably improved 

 since the thinning out which they received at the hands of 

 the city Board of Health. The restfulness of this spot is 

 invaluable in the midst of the hurrying throngs of one of 

 the busiest parts of the city. It is hoped that its value from 

 the square-foot point of view shall never tempt its conver- 

 sion into building lots ! The gateway of dark Quincy 

 granite and Egyptian design, in itself is not remark- 

 able. Its nature is symbolized by the inverted torches 

 carved in relief on the two monoliths that form the sides. 

 Over this structure the Japanese Ampelopsis has crept, 

 rounding the sharp angles, draping the arch with the daintiest 

 of leafy" fringes, and all but hiding the inverted torches, 

 though leaving in sight the flame of life at their tips — as 

 if to deprive death of its harsh aspect by casting about it 



