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From Charleston.
[special correspondence of the Dispatch.]

Charleston, May 16, 1861.
Two vessels came into port this morning, one laden with molasses and sugar. The Niagara is not to be seen off the harbor; where gone, no one knows and nobody cares.

On yesterday, several Baptist ministers of your State and city visited Fort Sumter, by special permit of Governor Pickens, who did me the special honor of a call at my private residence. Among them was your townsman, the Rev. James B. Taylor, D. D., ‘"whose praise is in all the Churches,"’ and who still retains much of his former appearance, though now a man advanced in life. Accompanying him was a son, Rev. George B. Taylor, a Baptist minister of no small repute, and a son-in-law, Rev. Mr. Prichard, of Wilmington, N. C. These gentlemen were returning from Savannah, where the denomination had been holding their biennial Convention, and in which convocation they adopted certain resolutions expressive of the feelings of the denomination on our political difficulties. These resolutions ought to be read by every Southern man and woman, and, if possible, by every man and woman professing Christianity at the North, as a model of expression of a Christian convocation of the ministry of the ‘"Prince of Peace."’ Firmness, with dependence on God; manliness without bluster; courtesy without pusillanimity; patriotism without asperity, and a true Christian spirit without Puritanic whining or hypocritical cant, characterizes the paper. How different is the breath of these resolutions, its temper and its aim, to what we see breathed and fulminated by the so-called Christians and religious (?) newspapers we get from the land of the Puritans. Their pulpits and papers are breathing out to us death and destruction — our Conventions and public bodies only resolve to defend. Many of those holy and sainted ministers stand up night after night in the prayer-meeting room, doubtless, and exhort their brethren to imitate Him ‘"who went about doing good,"’ and the day following, with more fervor, exhort the mercenary soldiers of Lincoln to ‘"bring back from the wars a Southerner's head."’ In their so-called religious newspapers are paraded the most disgusting appeals to the worst passions of man, and on sunday these godly editors, many of them, administer at the altar the elements representing the broken body and shed blood of the immaculate Son of God. Appeals have been made by the press of the North to its soldiery for the invasion of the South, and to lay waste the homes of our people; to burn and destroy our towns and cities; to murder and devastate; to rob, and ‘"take and possess;"’ and all this to be accomplished by the drippings, the skimmings, and the strainings of the brothels and purlieus of New York, with such soldiers as Billy Wilson's Zouaves, the thieves, pickpockets and burglars of the Sodom of the United States. And these are the material, and this the errand, that these holy men of God, these saints of the latter-day glory, these high priests of the quill and white cravat, set on us, and pat upon the back and bid ‘"God speed"’ in the glorious work of murder, robbery, arson and rape, among whom is that saintly fiend, Henry Ward Beecher, of the Puritanic pandemonium of Brooklyn, and that other God-loving saint who presides over the New York Examiner, the Right Rev. Dr. Bright, of the Baptist Church, who has fattened his Puritanic and murderous soul on Southern money and Southern Baptists. Will not every Southern Baptist at once recoil from the contaminating touch of the thing again, and instantly order your postmasters to return the paper, with a legal notice to this revered saintly murderer that no more of his pious missiles of death shall be read in Virginia? Yes, I know you will to a man.

I try to realize, Messrs. Editors, my position as a man and a Christian, but when I think of the great wrongs that have been perpetrated against us, both as a Government and as private Christians, I find myself unable to restrain myself; but I have still, and ever have had, abiding faith in our cause, our people, and God's justice.

Charleston, May 17, 1861.
I have it on better authority than you generally get, that old ‘"Tureen"’ (Scott,) and Lincoln will, on Tuesday or Wednesday next, make an attempt on Harper's Ferry, Alexandria, Fredericksburg, Urbana, and Tappahannock on the Rappahannock, and at Norfolk, and on the York river, merely to divert voters from the polls. I hope, however, that every voter in the State may determine to go to the polls and vote, if he never gets back home alive. Let him go with his ticket in one hand and the sword in the other, and vote your noble old State out of a Union with men whom you can never live except in degradation.

Virginians, next Thursday is to you the most momentous day that has ever dawned upon you. It is a day for weal or woe to you and your posterity. I feel as confident as I ever did of anything, that an overwhelming majority in favor of secession will not only effectually crush out that little detestable nest of Tories in the Pan-Handle, but will be the most energetic means of cooling down Lincoln and his tools of anything that can be done whatever.--Your Convention has wisely provided that the soldiers on duty may vote wherever they are. Let every soldier vote — let every farmer vote, every mechanic, merchant, lawyer, doctor, every one, by all that is dear to freemen, vote yourselves out of the Union of the abolition cut-throats and robbers of the North.--Never let the sun of Thursday, May 23d, 1861, go down and find you the vassals of Lincoln, who has eternally disgraced his own degraded party and section. Old Virginia has never yet faltered. She has always been equal to any and every emergency. Let no small affair keep you away from the polls — let everything else be laid aside that one day. If any fighting has to be done on that day, tell the Palmetto boys to ‘"step in,"’ until you can cast your votes. Give the good cause 150,000 majority, never return to your homes until the good deed is done, and when done, you will see the pulse of old ‘"Ape"’ will begin to beat more slowly.

One more injunction. Take care of old ‘"Tureen,"’ if you ever get hold of him; don't hurt him, I beg of you, he is my dear old friend.

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