“Cassville.”—Among the desolations of the late war, none was more effectual than the destruction of the above place.  From a pleasant little village of from five to seven hundred inhabitants, all happy and contented, (for we must confess, we never saw a people more attached to a platt of ground than the citizens of Cassville were to Cassville), that town has been brought down to a pile of debris and ashes, and has become the rendezvous of owls and bats.  Some half a dozen of her old inhabitants, as if loath to leave, still linger about the sacred precincts.  Three church edifices, which escaped the devourer’s torch, still lift their spires toward the skies, and four or five residences, in the suburbs of the village, remain untouched by flame, to tell the sad fate of that doomed village.  Her two colleges slumber in oblivion’s bed, while her sainted dead still repose beneath the clods of a neighboring hilltop, and was only disturbed by the fortifications and tread of hostile armies.  Where all was once life and bustle, now reigns the stillness of death, and nothing breaks the dull monotony but the voice of prayer and praise, as it ascends the azure of the skies to God, from the hearts and mouths of those who once composed the citizens of that desolated and deserted village.