I was taking a stroll the other morning among the old faishioned gardens of New-Orleans, which are just beginning to be inviting, after the gloomy and cheerless winter, when it occurred to me that a few random notes on the subject of what does or does not, grow in this region, might be acceptable to your columns. I plucked a Chromatella rose, such in size and color as would make your heart glow to look on, and sauntered home to fulfill my intention. It was near the first of March, and - do not feel envious - green peas were ready for the table; as I passed a coffee-house, the fragrant scent of fresh mint, as some dry citizen was imbibing a julep, floated invitingly into the street, and - restrain your feelings - a bowl of fresh strawberries, the very first of the season, had that morning been announced as having been deposited in the sanctum of some lucky editor. The next day "came a frost, a killing frost - pea blossoms wilted, strawberries soured, and mint-juleps gave way to hot toddies." But this lasted only a few days. The weather has cleared up; peach and plum trees are in full blossom, the forest has assumed its livery of green, and the whole air is fragrant with odours.

Spring is here at last, but I do not find that the charms of nature are so highly appreciated here as in the colder north. At least, so much attention is not paid to horticulture as a science. The south is generally considered as the land of flowers, and nature has done her best to make it so, but as yet, in this quarter, at least, but little attention is paid to gardening, beyond laying out an acre or two on plantations, and in the suburbs of the city, in a few of the more common fruits and flowers that arc indi

There are, however, some serious drawbacks to horticultural enjoyment in this vicinity. The coast, as it is here called, is nothing but a strip of land of about a mile in width, bounded on one side by the Mississippi, on the other by a densely wooded swamp, entered by few except runaway negroes, hunters, or very devoted lovers of nature. The land is very low, indeed perfectly flat, and always damp, for by digging a few feet, you can reach water that is brackish and unwholesome. The soil, though rich in the extreme, is unsuit-ed to many kinds of trees, and the long continued heats to which it is exposed, render it highly unfavorable to others. Then, too, however beautiful and tasteful may be the shrubberies and gardens, they are at all times too damp for any long-continued out-door enjoyment. There are no rich green grass swards, for grass docs not flourish in this climate, and if there were, you could not lie upon them. A little insect, called the "bete rouge," or red bug, would soon penetrate your skin, and make you the nest of its interesting family; the dampness would bring on your rheumatism; and instead of indulging in pleasant thoughts, your time would be taken of in dealing destruction to the myriads of musquitoes swarming in clouds around you, seeking an opportunity to get a taste of you.

Yet is the vegetable growth beautiful to look upon. Immense live oaks expand their arms over you, and shelter you from the sun. The orange, the pomegranate, and the lemon, invite you by the fragrance of their blossoms, and the lusciousness of their fruit. The Jessamine makes the air heavy with its oppressive odor, and a stranger would, in the earlier months of spring, reap much enjoyment from a visit, if he could be satisfied with flowers and fruits alone.

As you approach New-Orleans, descending the river, the view on either bank is quite attractive. You can scent the odor of the flowers. You can hear the notes of the mocking bird, and see hundreds of these merry bucks of the woods, flitting from tree to tree, as untiring as young kittens in their sports.

But the admiration you feel and express, is, I think, more the result of contrast with the dull and heavy wilderness through which you travel for several days before you reach what is called the coast. Though nature has done much to adorn the scene, art has done little or nothing. And your admiration, should you chance to stop at any of the numerous plantations, would cease. You would be astonished at the few varieties of trees and shrubs, and flowers, you would meet with, and surprised at the meagreness of what seemed so powerfully attractive in the approach. Notwithstanding all the praises bestowed upon the sunny south, in this part of it, at least, Landscape Gardening is half a century behind the age. I say this after many years acquaintance with the gardens of both town and country. Even with the wealthiest planters, those who count their slaves by hundreds and their acres by thousands, and have the incomes of the nobles of England, a garden seems a superfluity, except, indeed, a kitchen-garden, and even that is left to the care of some superannuated negro, who can no longer be made profitable in the field. The French Creoles are fond of gardening, but it is in a small way, and indeed, their fondness for it is more connected with the idea of profit than of pleasure.

There are many families in New-Orleans, highly respectable, who make a handsome support from the products of their gardens, principally flowers, which here are always in demand, particularly when the city is filled with strangers, as is usual for about two-thirds of the year. But their flowers are usually of the most ordinary kind, and that require but little labor or care in the cultivation, such as roses, acacias, violets and camellias, which latter, however, generally bring from one to two dollars. I have known a single bush bring as high as ten dollars, on some extraordinary occasion, when scarce.

Larly On Sundays, when, as it is easily accessible by railroad, thousands flock to it to get a little fresh air and a nosegay. It is laid out in the English style, and is a pleasant place of retreat from the heat and stench of this dirtiest of all cities. It, however, possesses no horticultural or botanical attraction. The garden is a source of profit from its flowers, but I suspect more money is made from the sale of liquor in the hotel which is connected with it. It is owned by the railroad company, and is the only attraction at that terminus of the line.