Another hospitable rule in Uncle Dick's house was that company must never be kept waiting in his parlor, and so anxious was his young niece to meet his approbation in this as in every particular that she had a habit of dressing herself carefully, arranging her hair beautifully--it was in the days, too, when smooth hair was fashionable--before lying down for the afternoon siesta, "in case," she said, "someone might call, and Uncle Dick had a horror of visitors waiting." This process of reposing in a fresh muslin dress and fashionably arranged hair required a particular and uncomfortable position, which she seemed not to mind, but dozed in the most precise manner without rumpling her hair or her dress. Elkwood was a favorite place of resort for Episcopal ministers, whom Aunt Jenny and Uncle Dick loved to entertain. And here we met the Rev. Philip Slaughter, the learned divine, eloquent preacher, and charming companion. He had just returned from a visit to England, where he had been entertained in palaces. Telling us the incidents of his visit, "I was much embarrassed at first," said he, "at the thought of attending a dinner-party given in a palace to me, a simple Virginian, but, on being announced at the drawing-room door and entering the company, I felt at once at ease, for they were all ladies and gentlemen, such as I had known at home--polite, pleasant, and without pretense." This gentleman's conversational powers were not only bright and delightful, but also the means of turning many to righteousness--for religion was one of his chief themes. A proof of his genius and eloquence was given in the beautiful poem recited--without ever having been written--at the centennial anniversary of old Christ Church in Alexandria. This was the church in which General Washington and his family had worshiped, and around it clustered many memories. Mr. Slaughter, with several others, had been invited to make an address on the occasion, and one night, while thinking about it, an exquisite poem passed through his mind, picturing scene after scene in the old church--General Washington, with his head bowed in silent prayer; infants at the baptismal font; young men and maidens in bridal array at the altar; and funeral trains passing through the open gate. On the night of the celebration, when his turn came, finding the hour too late and the audience too sleepy for his prose address, he suddenly determined to "dash off" the poem, every word of which came back to him, although he had never written it. The audience roused up electrified, and, as the recitation proceeded, their enthusiasm reached the highest pitch. Never had there been such a sensation in the old church before. And, next morning, the house at which he was stopping was besieged by reporters begging "copies" and offering good prices, but the poem remains unwritten to this day.