His mother told me that when he was growing up to manhood, his father,
Harry Gloyd, was Justice of the Peace in Newport, Ohio, twelve years, and
that Charlie was so disgusted with the drink cases, that he would go in
a room and lock himself in, to get out of their hearing; that he never
touched a drop until he went in the army, the 118th regiment, Thomas L.
Young being the Colonel. Dr. Gloyd was a captain. In the society of these
officers he, for the first time, began to drink intoxicants. He was fighting
to free others from slavery, and he became a worse slave than those he
fought to free. In a little less than six months from the day my child
was born, I got a telegram telling of his death. His father died a few
months before he did, and mother Gloyd was left entirely alone.
Mother Gloyd was a true type of a New England housewife, and I
had always lived in the south. I could not say at this time that I loved
her, although I respected her very highly. But I wanted to be with the
mother of the man I loved more than my own life; I wanted to supply his
place if possible. My father gave me several lots; by selling one of these
and Dr. Gloyd's library and instruments, I built a house of three rooms
on one of the lots and rented the house we lived in, which brought us in
a little income, but not sufficient to support us. I wanted to prepare myself
to teach, and I attended the Normal Institute of Warrensburg.
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