We made a flying visit to the once prosperous, by now almost obliterated, town of Cassville, on Wednesday last—decoration day—and were truly gratified to observe the efforts which are now being made to revive the memory of that time-honored and once lovely village, by rebuilding residences upon a goodly number of the choicest lots.  It will be remembered, by many of our readers, that this place fell a victim to the destructive torches of Sherman, during the war, and was well nigh totally burned up, because the name of the place had been changed, by the Legislature, from Cassville to Mennassah, in honor of the first illustrious battle ground of the war.  Up to the time of its destruction Cassville was the county site of formerly Cass, but then Bartow county, and was graced by a neat two-story brick court-house, two prosperous colleges—male and female—two creditable hotels, three thriving churches, from fifteen to twenty business houses and offices, one newspaper and job printing office, a number of wood, blacksmith, Tailor, and shoe shops, together with an industrious, intelligent and refined population of between five and seven hundred inhabitants.  Nothing, of all this, was left save the three churches and a half dozen residences, and the sacred repository of the dead with a line of fortifications running centrally through it, while the citizens were scattered, homeless and destitute, from the mountains to the seaboard.  Never were a people more ardently attached to a place, than were the old citizens of Cassville to that ill-fated village; the devoted Jews in Babylonian captivity, never turned their eyes more longingly and yearningly towards Jerusalem, than did these people towards Cassville, and no bitterer tears shed and sighs heaved at the remembrance of Jerusalem than by these at the remembrance of Cassville.  No wonder, then, that on this bright and lovely spring day—the 26th day of April—amidst the sweet lays of nature’s minstrels, made doubly sweet by the majestic handiworks of God as displayed in His beautiful creation around them—the Cassville Memorial Association, together with their friends and sympathizers, assembled together to decorate with flowers and water with their tears the graves of that noble, heroic band of confederate soldiers, whose remains sleep hard by nearer, and may-be, dearer, loved ones in that solitary but cherished graveyard—who sacrificed their lives in the defense of the very homes that lay in heaps of ruin around them, and upon which, through debris and ashes, and charred and tangled woodbines and evergreens the modest little vine had sprung up and wormed its slender form around which twined its delicate tendrils, and, with head erect, had budded and blown a beautiful rose of colors rich and rare, and emitting a fragrance as sweet to olfactory sense as the memory of the loved departed ones was dear to the hearts of those who strew them over the graves.  Out of the ruins of desolated homes had sprung the sweet, fragrant flowers which, on that day, beautified and adorned the caskets from which had escaped the precious jewels—heroes’ spirits.

Cassville, though baptized with blood and fire, will yet rise from her grave of seeming oblivion, and in the not very distant future, will bloom as the rose.  Already she is again beginning to assume the appearance of a village, and, ere long, upon those classic hill tops where once the Cassville Female and Cherokee Baptist Male College flourished, will again spring up from their ruins, other and still more prosperous institutions of learning.