The Jefferson Connection
How the medical institution we call Jefferson today actually got its name is a complex narrative. It involves a relationship of three cities—Canonsburg, Charlottesville, and Philadelphia. It also involves a relationship of three men—Thomas Jefferson, the namesake; George McClellan, the founder; and Robley Dunglison, the bridge.
The first root of the gigantic family tree may be traced to about 1773, when an itinerant Presbyterian minister named John McMillen (1752–1833) traveled to western Pennsylvania to preach the gospel to the Scottish settlers of that area. After founding the Chartiers Hill Presbyterian Church near Canonsburg, he founded Canonsburg Academy in a log cabin around 1780, the first chartered literary institution west of the Alleghenies. The only good road into the area was a military one from Virginia, constructed in 1754 through the forest by General Braddock’s pioneer battalion of 300 axemen. Because the western part of Pennsylvania was largely blocked by impassable mountains, this area was more closely linked to Virginia than to Philadelphia. The Reverend McMillen’s appeal to prominent citizens of Virginia and Pennsylvania for funds and books included Benjamin Franklin, who sent £50 and some books. Shortly after Franklin’s death in 1790 his portrait was sent.
In 1802 the trustees chartered the institution as a college and gave it the name of Jefferson in honor of the then third president of the United States (1801–1809). As a token of appreciation, Jefferson made a gift of some books, and in 1803 sent a portrait of himself by an unknown artist. In spite of the great statesman’s reputed wealth, generosity, and interest in education, he had serious financial troubles. Because of a flamboyant lifestyle, lavish maintenance resulted in a personal debt of $20,000 by the time Jefferson left the presidency. After the British destroyed the Library of Congress in 1814, the former President sold 13,000 volumes from his own library to the nation for $23,950. This temporary relief was erased by the hordes of relatives, guests, and strangers who unashamedly wined, dined, and boarded at his expense, even keeping their horses in his stables. His threatened bankruptcy was saved by a national subscription of $16,500 in 1826, the year of his death. A few months later Monticello itself (now a national memorial), with its furniture, pictures, and silver, was sold to cover the debts. Small wonder that Jefferson was unable to send any money to the college honoring his name.