A superb footman he made; and with the added distinction of the President’s livery he always drew attention and comment. The veteran Senator Ruffin was entertaining a few friends with reminiscences once when Hayward passed. One of the party said: "Look at that footman. Phillips has a fine eye for form, hasn’t he?" "Yes," Senator Ruffin answered, "if he saw him before he employed him, which he very likely did not. "But do you know," he went on, "I never see that nigger but I think of John Hayward of whose last speech in Congress I was telling some of you yesterday. The nigger has his figure and carriage, even the set and toss of his head, about everything save his colour. The first time I saw him get down from the Phillips’ carriage I thought of John Hayward, who is dead these fifty years. "There was a man for you, gentlemen. No more knightly spirit was ever carried in a kinglier figure of a man. He was just out of college when I was a boy, but I can remember that even then John Hayward was a toast and a young man of mark down in Carolina. Our fathers’ plantations adjoined, and he was the first man that ever stirred in my boyish heart the sentiment of hero-worship. The Haywards were men of note in my State in that day as in this, and young John Hayward’s future was as brilliant and well-assured as wealth, fine family, abounding talent, high purpose and personal force of character could make it." —"But we lost him. A former half-Spanish, half-devil overseer on his father’s plantation, who had been discharged because of his cruelty and general wickedness, had bought a small farm near the elder Hayward’s place, and was trying to establish himself as a land and slave holder. This overseer came back from one of his periodical trips bringing with him one of the likeliest mulatto girls, as I remember it now, that I ever saw. All the neighbours knew he could have no good purpose in buying her, for he needed no house-girl to keep dressed up in calico as he began to keep her. It was but a few days before reports of his terrible cruelty to her began to be circulated by both negroes and white people, who heard her screams as he whipped her day and night. "Late one afternoon, a week perhaps after he had brought her home, John Hayward and Dick Whitaker were riding through the overseer’s farm and heard the girl scream. John, who was acquainted with the situation, said, ’Come on, Dick, let’s go up and stop that;’ and put his horse at the little gate and was pounding on the overseer’s door before Dick could reply. "The sound of blows ceased and the overseer came and opened the door, revealing the girl crouched down on the floor moaning and sobbing. When the slave-driver saw it was John his eyes snapped in wrath. "’What do you want?’ he demanded. "’I want you to quit whipping that nigger,’ said John. "’You go to hell,’ retorted the overseer. ’I’ll whip my slaves whenever they won’t work like I—’