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A Pleasure to Be Bought

The story behind the $306,977 gift that made the Johns Hopkins School of Medicine, and coeducation there, possible.

By Kathleen Waters Sander

Opening photo: "Mary Elizabeth Garrett," by John Singer Sargent, 1904. Courtesy of the Alan Mason Chesney Medical Archives, the Johns Hopkins Medical Institutions. Photo by Aaron Levin. A new biography by Kathleen Waters Sander tells the story of Mary Elizabeth Garrett, philanthropist, suffragist, and a major contributor to the founding of the School of Medicine. The daughter of B&O Railroad magnate John Work Garrett, Mary leveraged her significant inheritance to advance women's rights and women's education. In 1888, she and the rest of the "Friday Night" club — Bessie King, Julia Rogers, Martha Carey Thomas, and Mary "Mamie" Machall Gwinn — set out to raise $100,000. That was the amount, according to Johns Hopkins University President Daniel Coit Gilman, that would be needed to open the medical school. Before they even raised the money, Gilman upped the ante — to a whopping $500,000.

The following excerpt, from Mary Elizabeth Garrett: Society and Philanthropy in the Gilded Age, published this month by the Johns Hopkins University Press, tells the story of how Mary and the Friday Night not only reached that extraordinary sum, but changed the face of education at Hopkins in the process.

"The ladies' work is finished," the Baltimore American announced in spring 1891.1 After more than two years of countless moments of anxiety and elation, the Women's Medical School Fund had reached its original $100,000 goal, far short of the trustees' revised $500,000 endowment requirement. But Mary was not quite ready to admit defeat in the battle to open a coeducational medical school at Hopkins.

As [WMSF chair] Nancy Morris Davis prepared to present the Fund's $111,300 gift to the university, Mary made yet another jolting proposal to the trustees. By this time, the trustees should have been accustomed to her surprise financial enticements. In a letter dated April 27, 1891, to "Hon. George Dobbin, President of the Board of Trustees of the Johns Hopkins University," Mary offered an additional $100,000 to sweeten the deal. But as was becoming her trademark, she attached a few strings. In order to receive her money, she required that the trustees themselves raise the balance to meet the $500,000 endowment by the following February. Should the balance be raised, she also insisted, the medical school must open in October 1892.2

Mary's proposal put the trustees in an awkward situation. With no other offers of their own on the table, they officially but reluctantly accepted the WMSF gift and Mary's stringent conditions for her own offer. They responded by stating "members of the board would endeavor individually to obtain, before February 1, 1892, from persons interested in higher medical education additional contributions to the amount of $221,219.58." Bessie's father, Francis King, president of the hospital board, stated in regard to Mary's offer, "the amount is not exceedingly large, but it is a very neat sum."3

Once again, the trustees, who were unable to raise the money themselves, downplayed the women's roles. The press, however, found the gift much more than a "very neat sum" and was far more impressed with Mary's offer than the trustees had been. It did not take the papers long to enthusiastically report the news. Not only was the fund's contribution an enormous amount in itself from a women's group, but Mary's $100,000 added incentive was an unprecedented philanthropic offer to a university from one of the country's wealthiest women. To most Americans at the time, the amount would have been incomprehensible. It was more than quadruple what the average male wage earner in the United States could expect to earn in a lifetime.

Just as two years earlier, when she financed the modern Bryn Mawr School and supervised the construction of its $500,000 building, Mary's name made headlines across the country. With her additional $100,000 offer to Hopkins, her reputation as one of the country's preeminent philanthropists was solidified.

"Miss Garrett's Gift to Science," the New York Telegraph proclaimed of the gift. The Sunday Herald announced that "Her Royal Gift" signified that "Johns Hopkins University will get a school of medicine for men and women." In Cincinnati, where the Garrett name was well known from the B&O lines that had run through the city for half a century, the Cincinnati Enquirer lauded "Miss Garrett's Munificent Gift," noting the successful opening of the medical school depended "upon the Trustees having in hand by February 1892, the remainder of the sum necessary to complete the endowment." The Baltimore American commented, "No estimate can be too high for the permanent and far-reaching value of such a school. It will be national in its scope, universal in its benefits to medicine and to humanity."4

The St. Louis Republic, noting that city's paltry contribution of only $550, felt compelled to chastise St. Louisans for their lackadaisical response to the fund's campaign. "St. Louis has yet contributed very meagerly."5 The article provided the names and addresses where contributions from St. Louisans could be sent to add to the endowment.

Within days of making her enticing $100,000 offer, the always-mysterious millionaire immediately left town, leaving the trustees to ponder how to meet her terms of raising more than $220,000 within ten months. Still despondent over the WMSF's failure to raise the needed endowment, Mary set sail on the SS Servia for brighter weather, far away from the struggles of the campaign and the seemingly endless impediments of the trustees. She traveled to Europe, where she spent eighteen months. Always a prolific letter writer, she wrote often of the places she visited and the friends she saw. She continued to manage the Bryn Mawr School from across the Atlantic and to buy her beloved statuary and paintings to fill her art gallery. But she seldom mentioned "the scheme" that had occupied much of her time for the past three years. Late in the summer, she met with her family in Oxford, England. The rendezvous did little to lift her spirits. "I have been far down in the depths in spite of the pleasure of seeing Alice [wife of Mary's brother Harry] and the boys ... I had gone back to my old way of not sleeping." She felt "tired and restless."6 She moved on to Rome, always one of her favorite cities, where she lived for several months.

The latest impasse with the university, the second since her 1887 proposal to Gilman to relocate the university, hung heavily over her head. It made her physically sick and emotionally distraught, particularly given the national publicity the campaign — and she — had received. In January 1892, as her imposed February deadline for the trustees to raise the additional money approached, Mary wrote to trustee Charles Morton Stewart to bring up the issue. She reminded him of the fund's gift and her own still outstanding, unresolved offer. Much to her credit, she did not withdraw her offer; in fact, she gave the university an indefinite amount of time to come up with the additional funds. She stipulated only that she would give the trustees a year's notice if she decided to withdraw the offer. The Baltimore Sun explained, "The action of Miss Garrett, one of the trustees says, will give the university 'full time to consider in all its bearings the questions of the opening of the medical school.'"7

Stewart's response was chilly and unpromising. Yes, he wrote simply, the trustees would give her notice if they decided not to make good on her $100,000 offer, affirming her "instructions in case any future withdrawal will elicit the appreciation of all the trustees." It was hardly an enthusiastic reply. Still no decision. The campaign had died and the negotiations were hopelessly stalled. Most frustrating for Mary, the trustees could not raise the balance. Mary wrote that she was "filled with despair." Aside from Carey and Mamie, other fund organizers were not pulling their weight to keep hope alive. "We cannot expect Bessie to do anything, although she certainly has the power," Mary wrote.8

Her annoyance and impatience with the trustees showed. She offered not one penny more than the precise amount needed to complete the endowment level. Although she had requested that the trustees raise the additional money, Mary continued to search for a donor to meet the $500,000 goal. Finding a philanthropist interested in contributing a major gift to medical education continued to prove elusive. "I'm afraid this imaginary person does not exist." She had heard a rumor that an elderly relative of Bessie's had died and left money for the medical school, but realized "it was just another house of cards."9

She was angry with the trustees for not holding up their end of the bargain. "So much emphasis was put on my share in the matter and, in fact, the university did not pledge itself to raise any of the money and has not done so," she wrote to Carey in February 1892.10 That month marked the deadline by which the trustees were to have raised the balance of the funds. The campaign, once so promising, had become an embarrassment to Mary, her family name, the Women's Medical School Fund, and the university the fund had unwittingly dragged into the national spotlight.

By late fall 1892, Mary returned to Baltimore. After spending most of the past year and a half in the sunny climes of southern Europe, she returned to face a brutally cold winter on the East Coast. For the first time in over a century, Niagara Falls froze. But events were beginning to heat up in East Baltimore.

In November, Carey sent a distressed dispatch to Mary. The "outlook is infinitely worse than I had thought," Carey warned in a detailed memorandum entitled "Hospital Notes." More than likely, this was a verbatim account of the trustees' latest meeting, clandestinely conveyed by James Thomas to his daughter. Carey related that the university and the hospital, two separate legal entities, were engaged in a power struggle over which one would open, and thereby control, the proposed medical school. "If the university got the big money then it — not the hospital — would have to appoint the faculty." Carey warned "Mr. King's old plan has been revived by him [Stewart] in order to give the hospital control of the medical school." The women must act immediately, Carey urged, before the trustees' next meeting in mid-December, when the decision was to be made. "No words can say what I should think of such a medical school," Carey added, "Mamie will write to her father to tell him to postpone the meeting."11 Carey encouraged Mary to write yet another letter to Stewart, reminding him of the outstanding offers.

Although reporting erroneous information or misinterpreting it — Johns Hopkins had stated unambiguously in his will that the medical school should be part of the university and not the hospital — Carey's frantic letter spurred Mary into instant action. Mary's fortitude was once again restored and her anger piqued. She desperately wanted the long, bitter race between the WMSF and the university to end. She took matters into her own hands. She had been so much identified with the campaign that the failure of the fund and the university to raise the endowment required that she step in to save face for all involved.

She decided to contribute the balance — more than $300,000 — herself.

With her inheritance inextricably tied to the precarious B&O, the same company that had caused the university's fortunes to fall, she did not make the decision lightly. She met with Charles Mayer, a co-executor of her father's estate, and told him of her plan. "I am representing all with whom I had acted in the Women's Fund," she explained of the meeting in a letter to Carey. Mayer made arrangements with Charles Gwinn to present Mary's offer to the trustees. Consulting with Carey, Mary outlined a draft of the letter Gwinn would present to the trustees: "I am so much interested in the establishment of the medical school on the right basis that I am prepared to make a proposition to complete the endowment." Mary explained to Carey the strategy for presenting the offer to the university: "Mr. Gwinn is willing to present this proposition with the trustees."12 On December 22, 1892, Gwinn presented her offer to the board.

Mary offered to give the university $306,977. Her annoyance and impatience with the trustees showed. She offered not one penny more than the precise amount needed to complete the endowment level, the astronomical $500,000 that had been so far out of the reach of the WMSF campaign to raise. She stipulated she would pay annual installments of $50,000 each, beginning in January 1894, the year after the school opened, and continue through the final payment of $6,977, to be paid on January 1, 1899.13 Since the university would not receive the full endowment until the final year, she offered to pay 5 percent interest each year.

When the trustees looked at Mary's final terms on that cold December day, they might have wished they had opened the medical school with her $100,000 offer — and less stringent terms — a year and a half earlier. Mary, too, had upped the ante. Just as she had done in April 1891, before leaving for Europe, Mary set forth unprecedented terms, this time six rigorous conditions for acceptance of her gift. She had expanded considerably upon the fund's original caveat to simply admit women medical students "on the same terms as men." She had more far-reaching goals in mind for the new medical school.

First and foremost, the woman who had completed the construction of the innovative Bryn Mawr School building just two years earlier designated that a building be erected at the new medical school to honor the vital role women had played in calling attention to the sorry state of American medicine and in revolutionizing medical education and training. She knew the importance of a bricks-and-mortar monument to the women's accomplishments. She did not seek the spotlight for herself. Rather, she instructed that the building be named the "Women's Fund Memorial Building." Although the fund, with its roster of some of the nation's wealthiest women, was rescued from embarrassment when Mary contributed the lion's share of the endowment, she nonetheless insisted that the women's efforts be recognized. She stipulated that $50,000 of the $500,000 endowment should be "expended on a building or buildings . . . in memory of the contributions of the Committees of the Women's Medical School Fund . . . [and it] shall be known as the Women's Fund Memorial Building."14

Reacting to the trustees' October 28, 1890, public assurance that women medical students would limit their studies to female-oriented medical fields — "in penal institutions, in which women are prisoners, in charitable institutions in which women are cared for, and in private life, when women are to be attended" — Mary made a subtle, but significant stipulation. Rather than limiting women medical students' scope of study, she instead insisted that women "enjoy all the advantages on the same terms as men" as well as "all prizes, dignities, or honors" that were afforded male students.15

To make certain future generations would not forget the Women's Medical School Fund, Mary instructed that the Resolution of October 28th, 1890, in which the trustees agreed to the terms of the Women's Medical School Fund to accept women students on the same terms as men, "shall be printed each year in whatever annual or semi-annual calendars may be issued announcing the courses of the Medical School." She handpicked the first members of the oversight committee: "Mrs. Henry M. Hurd and Mrs. Ira Remsen, both of whom were active members of the Baltimore Committee of the Women's Medical School Fund; Mrs. William Osler; Miss M. Carey Thomas and Miss Mamie M. Gwinn, the two friends who have been most closely associated with me in promoting the opening of the Medical School, both of whom are daughters of Trustees of the University; and myself."16

Of most significance to the future of medicine, Mary stipulated unprecedented academic terms that would equal those of the great, centuries-old European universities. She insisted that the "Medical School of the University shall be exclusively a Graduate School . . . [and] shall form an integral part of the Johns Hopkins University . . . [and] shall provide a four years' course, leading to the Doctor of Medicine." She required that students have knowledge "imparted in the preliminary Medical Course," which meant that they would have a background in the sciences as well as be fluent in French and German. She also required that students successfully pass examinations based on the preliminary medical course as well as their studies in the medical school before receiving their degrees.

Gilman had first recommended such standards in 1876, when he proposed a specific curriculum, as he noted, "for one who looks toward a course in medicine," by including courses in chemistry, physics, modern languages, and philosophy. Dr. William Welch had similarly enumerated many of the academic requirements years earlier, never imagining that such lofty standards could actually be implemented. "She naturally thought this is what we wanted," Welch later commented on Mary's gift. "It is one thing to build an educational castle in the air at your library table, and another to face its actual appearance under the existing circumstances."17

Perhaps of greatest surprise was Mary's deadline for the opening of the medical school that had taken so long to establish. She insisted that it open in less than a year — by "autumn of 1893 and notice of such intended opening shall be given on February 22, 1893." That date would commemorate the seventeenth anniversary of the inauguration of the Johns Hopkins University in 1876. Carey was thrilled with Mary's firm decision and the trustees' sudden flurry of activity. "Dixon [a trustee] was simply charmed to see father & now he is talking to Gilman," Carey wrote. "Good night, my dear," she added, sending "kisses of congratulations."18

Two days later, on Christmas Eve 1892, nineteen years to the day after Johns Hopkins had died, the trustees met at a hastily convened meeting at the home of Charles Gwinn to officially accept Mary's "munificent gift." Their resolution provided "a memorial of her liberality to this University and . . . its obligations to her." Johns Hopkins's dream for a medical school came one step closer to reality — thanks to Mary's "holiday gift," as her contribution has since been called. Charles Gwinn telegrammed Gilman, then staying in New York at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, informing him of the board's decision.19

Gilman was mortified. He rushed back to Baltimore, shocked at the trustees' acceptance of the terms of the gift. He feared the wording on Mary's admissions stipulations restricted academic freedom, was too binding, and might one day cause embarrassment if the 1892 standards were applied in perpetuity. He also worried about the language requirements of fluency in French and German. Carey felt that was a weak excuse. Bryn Mawr College, she coyly pointed out, had 170 students at that time, "everyone of whom has passed our examination for reading French and German. It is folly to suppose that men cannot do the same at a much more mature age."20

Gilman had good reason to be apprehensive. Years earlier, when the University of Pennsylvania and Harvard had tried to raise their academic standards, admissions and much-needed revenue dropped off. With the Johns Hopkins University still in fragile financial health, he could not afford a similar dilemma. And then there was the issue of coeducation. How would the faculty respond? He could not risk a repeat of Harvard's experience when, in 1878, Marian Hovey's $10,000 offer to make the medical school coeducational stirred great controversy among Harvard's faculty.

The "Friday Night"
Photo courtesy Bryn Mawr College Library
Gilman and Welch tried to convince Mary to lower, or at least compromise, her terms for admission. Every day, a university trustee, a faculty member, or Gilman trekked to Mary's Mount Vernon Place mansion to plead for a concession. On January 26, a month after Mary had made her offer, Welch reported that he could find "no indication that she was willing to modify those terms." The medical faculty voiced their own concerns about academic control. On February 9, they submitted a document stating, among other concerns, that the university should have the right to determine under what conditions students could be admitted and have the right to change the conditions when mandatory.21

But they greatly underestimated Mary's resolve. Her years of sitting in on railroad meetings, listening to her unbending father strike deals, and, not least, having her previous proposals rejected, finally paid off. She refused to budge. Carey described the ongoing negotiations with her usual dramatic flair: "The trustees get so angry they [fling] brickbats at each other's heads."22

The debates dragged on through February. Finally, when all parties appeared to reach consensus, Mary raised minor objections, among them finding fault with an aspect of the entrance examination and one of the course offerings, "a chemical-biological course that required too little skill knowledge for the medical students."23 The entire arrangement, so near to closure, was suddenly thrown into jeopardy.

It was touch and go, with neither side quite sure of the outcome. Mary fretted fitfully. "Heaven only knows what new difficulties will have been hatched and have attained their full growth by that time," she wrote as she waited for Gilman's and the trustees' final decision. She put her faith in Charles Gwinn to argue for her conditions. "Mr. Gwinn has been our counselor as well as our advocate," she reminded Carey, who also worried about the down-to-the-wire negotiations. To calm her nerves, Mary often rode out to Montebello in the afternoons. "The ride made me feel a little better . . . my heart has been beating in quite such a suffocating fashion." In the final weeks, when Mary's nerves frayed almost to the breaking point, Carey dashed down to Baltimore from Bryn Mawr as often as twice a week to keep the negotiations on track. "I sat up all night preparing campaign broadsides," Carey later recalled.24

At long last, on the day before Mary's February 22 deadline and after nearly two months of nonstop discussions and debates, all sides — the trustees, the faculty, Gilman, and Mary — reached an agreement. To satisfy the faculty's concerns over academic freedom, Mary modified two paragraphs of her original letter to allow for special circumstances, to "bring the terms of her gift into entire accordance with the statement of the requirements for admission to the Medical School which had been formulated by the Medical Faculty and approved by the Board of Directors."25 Finally, she agreed to sign the documents.

With a stroke of her pen, Mary made the long-awaited Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine a reality. It had taken four years, but finally Daniel Coit Gilman had found a donor willing to invest in medical education. But it was not the "man of large means" he had hoped for. Instead, it was a Baltimore heiress, whose father had helped the university benefactor develop his philanthropic plan a quarter of a century earlier in the family's home on Mount Vernon Place. Although Gilman's 1888 letter to trustees George Dobbin and Charles Gwinn had suggested that the school would be named for the donor, only the endowment, not the medical school, was named the "Mary Elizabeth Garrett Fund."

Mary was thirty-eight years old when she joined the ranks of the country's most renowned philanthropists, the same age her father had been when he made his first major step in the world as president of the B&O.

The day after the agreement was signed, the university joyfully commemorated its seventeenth anniversary with a convocation and celebration at the Peabody Institute, where two years earlier famed Russian composer Pyotr Ilich Tchaikovsky had performed. At the convocation, the Peabody Student Orchestra played and the chorus sang. President Angell of the University of Michigan, who had helped to advise the trustees in the formation of the university twenty years earlier, delivered the address.26 There was much to celebrate. At last, all the parts of the benefactor's great dream — the university, the hospital, and the medical school — were complete.

The simple, four-page announcement, with its unprecedented terms and standards, revolutionized medical education in the United States. The trustees held a luncheon in honor of the Women's Medical School Fund members and Gilman wrote a warm and complimentary acknowledgment letter to Mary. "Medical education for women and for men will at once receive an impulse as a consequence of your generosity, which will be felt throughout the land for years and years to come." He added that "you have won the acknowledgements not only of all the friends of the University and Hospital, but of a much wider circle of persons who desire to see improved methods of study introduced into medical colleges of the country. I beg you to accept this personal expression of most hearty gratitude." Commenting on the unparalleled academic standards, Osler joked to Welch, "It is lucky we got in as professors. We could never enter as students."27

Mary had required that a "Preliminary Announcement" be distributed by the required date of February 22, giving public notice of the new medical school. The announcement stated the new medical school "will be opened for the instruction of properly qualified students, October 2, 1893. Men and women will be admitted on the same terms."28 The announcement reiterated Mary's terms, that candidates for the medical school be "Graduates of approved colleges or scientific schools" and have "a knowledge of French, German, Physics, Chemistry and Biology."

The simple, four-page announcement, with its unprecedented terms and standards, revolutionized medical education in the United States. It provided a final vindication of the often-agonized and polarized race between the university and the Women's Medical School Fund. Unfortunately, the announcement failed to mention one important point: the name of the benefactor who worked tirelessly for four years to make it all possible.

But the press did not overlook this important part of the story. Once again, Mary's name was splashed across the headlines. Unlike the earlier publicity in the spring of 1891, announcing her $100,000 offer, when the status of the medical school remained unresolved, she might have felt easier with the new wave of public accolades. "Enlarges Woman's Sphere," the Chicago Herald pronounced. "Miss Garrett's Princely Gift," the San Francisco Examiner weighed in. Rev. C. T. Weede, pastor of Baltimore's Exeter Methodist Episcopal Church, in a Sunday sermon in early 1893 felt compelled to thank a higher authority that the protracted impasse was finally solved. "And who in our fair city has not felt during the past week a thrill of pardonable pride that Baltimore has one woman like the noble Miss Garrett who lays almost $400,000 at the altar of science in connection with our beloved Johns Hopkins?" The Baltimore American succinctly summed up the twenty-year effort to open the medical school: "Miss Garrett's Gift Solved the Problem."29

Much of the publicity focused on the unprecedented, rigorous academic terms that accompanied the gift. The Baltimore Sun wrote "Miss Garrett, in her letter, sets forth the conditions of her gift clearly and explicitly, not only that women shall be admitted, but that their rights and privileges in the school shall be for all time the same as those enjoyed by men, and further, that the school shall be exclusively a graduate school. She is [unwilling] to contribute at any time to the maintenance of an undergraduate or partly undergraduate school."30

Mary suddenly found that publicity placed her in the company of the great male philanthropists of the day. "Never in the history of the world were there such general and grand donations to charitable, benevolent and educational purposes," the Philadelphia Call wrote. "The example set by Mr. Childs and Mr. Drexel has been followed by P. D. Armour and John D. Rockefeller. Now it is announced that Miss Mary E. Garrett of Baltimore has contributed over $300,000 to the endowment fund of the Johns Hopkins University. The world at large is made better by the existence of such donors."31

The New York Review of Reviews wrote an article entitled "What Baltimore's Rich Men Have Done." In Baltimore, the article noted, "we find about fifty-five large Baltimore fortunes listed as equal to one million or more ... and their wealth has been accumulated slowly and by old fashioned business care and sagacity. Just one-half of the names [belong] to men of a recognized disposition to be generous. . . The most noteworthy of recent benefactions in Baltimore is Miss Mary E. Garrett's check for $350,000 to the trustees of the Johns Hopkins University." The Philadelphia Ledger found that "for a long time it seemed left to men alone, like Matthew Vassar and Henry M. Sage, to remember that women also had wants of knowledge."32

Not everyone was impressed. Delaware's Wilmington Journal found little would change in medical education. "Women will now have the opportunity to learn how to give breast pills or listen sympathetically to a dear patient's enumeration of all the diseases the human flesh is heir to."33

Within six months of striking the deal, the university appointed additional faculty — in pharmacology, anatomy, physiology, obstetrics and gynecology, and surgery — to round out the medical faculty in preparation for the school's imminent opening. Years later, physician-in-chief William Osler jadedly commented to then- university president Ira Remsen on Mary's blatant bribery of the trustees: "We are all for sale, dear Remsen," Osler quipped. "You and I have been in the market for years, and have loved to buy and sell our wares in brains and books — it has been our life. So with institutions. It is always a pleasure to be bought, when the purchase price does not involve the sacrifice of an essential — as was the case in that happy purchase of us by the Women's Medical Association."34

It had taken three tries, but Mary finally had "bought" coeducation at the Johns Hopkins University.

Notes to "A Pleasure To Be Bought"

1. Baltimore American, May 4, 1891.

2. MEG to Hon. George Dobbin, President of the Board of Trustees of the Johns Hopkins University, April 27, 1891. Women'sMedical Fund Campaign Papers, File 21, AMC.

3. Sunday Herald, May 3, 1891; Baltimore American, April 29, 1891.

4. New York Telegraph, May 2, 1891; Sunday Herald, May 3, 1891; Cincinnati Enquirer, May 8, 1891; Baltimore American, May 3, 1891.

5. St. Louis Republic, May 4, 1891.

6. MEG to MCT, July 16, 1891, reel 42, BMC.

7. MEG to Charles Stewart, January 15, 1892, reel 43, BMC; Baltimore Sun, February 8, 1892.

8. Charles Stewart to MEG, February 9, 1892, reel 173, BMC; MEG to MCT, September 24, 1891, reel 42, BMC; MEG to MCT, January 24, 1892, reel 43, BMC.

9. MEG to MCT, February 21, 1892, reel 43, BMC.

10. Ibid.

11. MCT to MEG, November 29, 1892, reel 17, BMC.

12. MEG to MCT, December 9, 1892, reel 43, BMC.

13. Letter from Miss Garrett to the Trustees of the University, December 22, 1892, Daniel Coit Gilman Papers, ms. 1, Sheridan Libraries, JHU.

14. Ibid.

15. Ibid.

16. Ibid.

17. Hawkins, Pioneer, 108; Edmunds, "The Price of Admission," 65.

18. MCT to MEG, December 23, 1892, reel 17, BMC.

19. Action of the Trustees, December 24, 1892, Daniel Coit Gilman Papers, ms. 1, Sheridan Libraries, JHU.

20. Edmunds, "The Price of Admission," 65.

21. "An Account of the Negotiations with Miss Mary E. Garrett Concerning the Terms of Her Gift to the Medical School" [no date]. Daniel Coit Gilman Papers, ms. 1, Sheridan Libraries, JHU.

22. Edmunds, "The Price of Admission," 65.

23. MEG to Board of Trustees, January 30, 1893, Daniel Coit Gilman Papers, ms. 1, Sheridan Libraries, JHU.

24. MEG to MCT, February 7, 1892, reel 43, BMC; MCT to Hannah Whitall Smith, March 1 1, 1894, reel 29, BMC, noted in Horowitz, Power and Passion, 237.

25. "Account of the Negotiations with Miss Mary E. Garrett Concerning the Terms of Her Gift to the Medical School."

26. Baltimore Herald, February 11, 1893.

27. Daniel Coit Gilman to MEG, December 23, 1892. Daniel Gilman Papers, ms. 1, Sheridan Libraries, JHU; Osler quote, Harvey et al., A Model of Its Kind, 28.

28. "Preliminary Announcement of the Johns Hopkins Medical School," File 41, AMC.

29. Chicago Herald, December 20, 1892. All newspaper clippings in MCT Subject Files, Reels 172/173, BMC; San Francisco Examiner, February 14, 1893; Baltimore Sun, January 2, 1893; Baltimore American, December 30, 1892.

30. Baltimore Sun, December 15, 1892.

31. Philadelphia Call, January 5, 1893.

32. Review of Reviews, February 1893; Philadelphia Ledger, January 7, 1893.

33. Wilmington Journal, January 4, 1893.

34. William Osler to Ira Remsen, September 1, 191 1, quoted in Harvey et al., A Model of Its Kind, 140. Osler was referring to the Women's Medical School Fund.

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