iRljolJolienbron ^ocietp ^otesJ. 
Gardeners’ Chronicle, July 2 Zrd , 1881. 
Of all vegetables of any size none lend themselves more freely to 
transplantation than Rhododendrons. 
Except during a hard frost, or when the plants are actually in bloom, or when 
the young shoots are in the tenderest condition, there is scarcely a day in the 
year when they may not be transplanted with impunity. 
Both the Messrs. Waterer have turned this peculiarity to most excellent 
account by creating each year in London what may be called a Rhododendron 
garden, rather than a show. The Hyde Park display is comparatively modem ; 
but the huge tents, such as Mr. John Waterer’s in Cadogan Place, are now almost 
to be numbered among the ancient sights of Londoners. It may seem very 
unnatural and inartistic to have beds, and banks, and shrubberies of planted 
Rhododendrons, with gravel walks and turf edgings, and the ups and downs of a 
real garden, confined for weeks together under canvas; but, in fact, it is very 
convenient in more ways than one. Many see the flowers who would not travel 
to the distant gardens. 
The plants brought up to town in bud, open well, and safe from casualties 
under cover. They last much longer when thus protected from sun, and wind, 
and rain, and insects ; and it must be added that the beauty of some of them is 
enhanced by the shade. 
The crimsons and the pinks, the predominant colours, glow more brilliantly, 
I think, under canvas ; the purples, on the other hand, as one might expect, 
are somewhat dulled by the sombre light. Be that as it may, however, few 
could enter into these Rhododendron temples nowadays without a cry of 
admiration. One seems transported into a world of colour. 
“ In the Zemu Valley,” writes Sir J. Hooker : ” Rhododendrons occupy the 
most prominent place, clothing the mountain slopes with a deep green mantle 
glowing with bells of brilliant colours. Of the eight or ten species growing here 
every bush was loaded with as great a profusion of blossoms as are their northern 
congeners in our English gardens.” Before a picture such as this—I pray my 
readers to imagine it—a mountain valley glowing with the brilliant bells of eight 
or ten distinct Sikkim species—say R. fulgens, Thomsonii, arboreum, 
Campbelli^, campylocarpum, argenteum, Aucklandii, and so on—before 
a picture such as this even Mr. Waterer’s tent must pale ; but the Londoner 
may well be proud of his little Zemu Valley in Cadogan Place, and of the skill 
and untiring perseverance which, far from fog and smoke, have provided this 
feast of colour, and then transported it bodily to his very door. Entering the 
tent one is almost dazzled at first by some of the rich red tints, which are 
saved, however, from seeming flaunting or gaudy by the masses of dark foliage 
whereon they rest. But crimson yields to pink, and pink melts away into 
creamy white in everchanging cadence, and then a bold dash of purple supplies 
the needful shadow. Yonder, in sooth, is the burning bush of Moses ; the snow, 
however, of its neighbour cools down the prospect; and so the visitor 
