and turned its life current into the ditches and flumes of the Excelsior
mines.
Newest of the new houses that seemed to have accidentally formed its
single, straggling street was the residence of the Rev. Winslow Wynn,
not unfrequently known as "Father Wynn," pastor of the First Baptist
church. The "pastorage," as it was cheerfully called, had the glaring
distinction of being built of brick, and was, as had been wickedly
pointed out by idle scoffers, the only "fireproof" structure in town.
This sarcasm was not, however, supposed to be particularly distasteful
to "Father Wynn," who enjoyed the reputation of being "hail fellow, well
met" with the rough mining element, who called them by their Christian
names, had been known to drink at the bar of the Polka Saloon while
engaged in the conversion of a prominent citizen, and was popularly said
to have no "gospel starch" about him. Certain conscious outcasts and
transgressors were touched at this apparent unbending of the spiritual
authority. The rigid tenets of Father Wynn's faith were lost in the
supposed catholicity of his humanity. "A preacher that can jine a man
when he's histin' liquor into him, without jawin' about it, ought to be
allowed to wrestle with sinners and splash about in as much cold water
as he likes," was the criticism of one of his converts. Nevertheless,
it was true that Father Wynn was somewhat loud and intolerant in his
tolerance. It was true that he was a little more rough, a little more
frank, a little more hearty, a little more impulsive than his disciples.
It was true that often the proclamation of his extreme liberality and
brotherly equality partook somewhat of an apology. It is true that a few
who might have been most benefited by this kind of gospel regarded
him with a singular disdain. It is true that his liberality was of an
ornamental, insinuating quality, accompanied with but little sacrifice;
his acceptance of a collection taken up in a gambling saloon for the
rebuilding of his church, destroyed by fire, gave him a popularity
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