Sunny skies, warm temperatures, and early summer humidity greeted the University’s second annual commencement in June 1885. It was a lively three-day affair, crammed with banquets, receptions, a commencement ball, and plenty of oratory. Among the speech-making standouts was a new graduate, Thomas Watt Gregory, whose eloquence thoroughly impressed his audience. “At times he rose to fine oratorical heights,” lauded the Austin Daily Statesman, “and prudently eschewed from his discourse the tinseled vaporings which generally characterize commencement efforts.” The formal ceremony was held Wednesday morning, June 17, at Millet’s Opera House in downtown Austin. Ashbel Smith, chair of the Board of Regents, conferred 20 law degrees, and presented the University’s first Bachelor of Arts degree to Samuel Clark Red. 

The next day, June 18, the graduating class of 1885 convened in the history lecture hall of the old Main Building. They were joined by most of the 13-member class of 1884 to organize an alumni association. The group adopted a constitution, limited membership to persons with a University degree, and elected officers. John Stone was voted the group’s first president, while Gregory was named vice president. Tapped as secretary, Robert Walker kept minutes of the meetings and preserved the alumni records on index cards. Annual meetings were to coincide with spring commencement, and John Cobb was selected to be the alumni speaker at the 1886 graduation. Among founding members of the new UT Alumni Association, the oldest was 24.

And so was born an organization, now known as the Texas Exes, that this year marks its 125th anniversary (its “quasquicentennial”). It is an organization that now requires 40 full-time staff members to fulfill its expansive mission of supporting The University of Texas, that requires the help of hundreds of volunteers around the calendar, and that keeps nearly 100,000 alumni and friends connected to one of this nation’s largest and most important institutions of higher learning.

For the next few years, the fledgling Association provided little more than a line of communication, gathering to socialize each June and choosing an alumni orator for commencement. The young graduates were busy launching their careers, marrying, and starting families. But by 1891, with some 250 members, the group aspired to be more. A committee led by 1886 law graduate Robert Batts met with the faculty and Board of Regents to discuss ways the Association might better serve the University.

The following year, the alumni announced they would help erect a YMCA building next to the campus. Popular among colleges around the turn of the 20th century, YMCAs were a precursor to student unions. With meeting rooms for student organizations, cafeterias, lounges, and gym facilities, the YMCA was a less expensive option for a financially strapped university to provide much-needed student services. The plan was finally realized in 1912, when the University YMCA opened at the corner of 22nd and Guadalupe streets.

Once begun, other projects appeared. The Association collected $53.59 to hire the George Herzod Band for the 1893 commencement ceremonies. The live music was a welcome addition; the faculty picked up the bill thereafter until the University Band was founded in 1900. By 1896, the annual meetings were so popular that the railroad, through Association efforts, offered UT alumni a discounted rate of four cents per mile to make the pilgrimage to Austin. In 1899, alumni raised $1,000 to pay one-third of the cost for an athletic field. Located just east of the campus, near the southeast corner of Speedway and 24th Streets (where Taylor Hall and the ACES Building are today), the field was the inaugural home for the University’s football, baseball, and track teams. The following year, another $1,000 was pledged for the Association’s first physical gift to the University: a pair of marble busts — of former Texas Gov. Oran Roberts and Sir Swante Palm — sculpted by Austin artist Elisabet Ney. As governor, Roberts had ensured the passage of legislation that established the University in 1881, while Palm, a Swedish immigrant who lived in Austin, had donated most of his 12,000-volume personal library to the University in 1891.

At the same time, while the alumni grew in number and became better organized, some rebellious University students created what has since become one of the Association’s most cherished traditions: the celebration of Texas Independence Day. 

In the late 1890s, the University was confined to a 40-acre campus, with a white-washed wooden fence around the perimeter to keep out the town cows. A Victorian Gothic Main Building, only two-thirds complete, commanded the hill in the center. It was flanked by the Chemistry Lab Building to the northwest, and B. Hall, a men’s dorm, down the hill to the east.

The University’s 500 students were divided into two departments: Academic and Law. The Academic Department encompassed studies comparable to today’s Colleges of Liberal Arts and Natural Sciences, and the “Academs” pursued their classes for four years, which lead to a Bachelor of Arts degree.

But Law students needed only two years to complete an LLB — a Bachelor of Laws and Letters — and an undergraduate degree wasn’t required for admission. Junior Laws were first-year law students, while Senior Laws were completing their final year.

On the cloudy morning of March 2, 1896, the Junior Laws were awaiting their next lecture in criminal law. It was taught by Robert Batts, a new member of the faculty who had led the alumni committee 10 years earlier. One student bemoaned the fact that the day was Texas Independence Day, a legal holiday for all Texans except, apparently, for UT students. 

For years, students had petitioned the professors for a break on March Second, but it had always been refused. “Our faculty is afraid to grant us a holiday, even on such occasions,“ complained the Alcalde, a weekly student newspaper that pre-dated the Daily Texan (not to be confused with the alumni magazine). “They fear that some 2 x 4 politician, or still smaller newspaper, will accuse them of not earning their money. That is the real cause of their reluctance to grant a cessation of routine grinds, to allow our Texan bosoms an inflation of truly patriotic atmosphere.”

After some thoughtful discussion, the Junior Laws decided they would honor such an auspicious day by avoiding class altogether, and invited Batts to join them. The diplomatic Batts responded with an articulate speech, and explained the importance of class time to the soon-to-be lawyers. The Junior Laws listened, respectfully applauded, and then promptly ignored Batts’ pleas. They chose instead to spend the day at Scholz’ Garten just south of the campus, where they were reportedly “very gemuethlick.”

One year later, in 1897, the now senior law class was determined to include the entire campus in a celebration of “the natal day of Texas Independence,” and again appealed to the faculty for a holiday. But the Board of Regents had recently hired George T. Winston as University president. A native of North Carolina and a graduate of Cornell, Winston neither understood nor shared the affinity Texans had for March Second. Winston recognized only one Independence Day, and that was on July Fourth. The petition was refused.

Undaunted, the Senior Laws pressed ahead with their plans, hoping to impress upon President Winston the importance of the second day of March. They met with the Texas attorney general, and four of the students signed a bond in order to borrow one of the two brass cannons that stood guard in front of the State Capitol. It took most of the afternoon of March 1 to roll the cannon to the Forty Acres, where the Laws planned to use it for a 21-gun salute to Texas at dawn the following day.

Just before sunrise on March 2, 1897, the Senior Laws arrived, only to find the cannon had been spiked. A large nail had been driven into the ignition hole, and it took some time, persistence, and the employment of several pocket knives to remove the offending item. By then, President Winston had appeared, and was rather unhappily resigned to the fact that the students were going to celebrate, whether or not the faculty approved. Hoping to minimize the damage to the class day, Winston asked the Laws to move the cannon away from the Main Building, down the hill to the University’s new athletic field. Or, they could wait until afternoon to have their fun. Confronted with such a decision, the students opted for the best course of action, and did both.

Boom! At 9:30 a.m., an otherwise peaceful March morning was harshly interrupted by a series of cannon bursts from the athletic field. The entire Law Department attended, including professors Batts and John Townes, and after each roar of cannon fire, a volunteer among those assembled gave a short but sincere patriotic speech. The talks by Batts and Townes were greeted with particularly loud cheers.

Meanwhile, a distracted Academic Department continued to hold classes as best it could. Some of the faculty hoped the Laws would tire of their efforts, while other professors no doubt wished they could join in the fun. The Laws, though, weren’t going to allow Texas Independence Day to pass without including the rest of the University.

By 1 p.m., fresh gun powder was secured, and the cannon was dragged up the hill and set in front of the Main Building, facing the Capitol. The first blast “threatened to break every window in the building.” In a flurry, the Academs vacated their classrooms and joined the Laws outside, and the scene of the morning was repeated, with more speeches from students and professors.

Midway through the afternoon, it was discovered that President Winston had quietly escaped to his home just a few blocks north, and a large and boisterous committee of students promptly followed. They refused to take no for an answer, and Winston was persuaded to return to the campus and make a speech. He reportedly opened by saying:

“I was born in the land of liberty, rocked in the cradle of liberty, nursed on the bottle of liberty, and I’ve had liberty preached to me all my life. But Texas University students take more liberty than anyone I’ve ever come in contact with.”

The tradition, including cannon fire, continued for years, and evolved into a celebration for both the Lone Star State and The University of Texas. At the 1900 annual meeting, the Alumni Association adopted a resolution: “Whenever two ex-students shall meet on March 2, Texas Independence Day, they shall sit and break bread and pay tribute to the Founders of the Republic of Texas, who made our education possible.” The date became popular as alumni gathered in their communities, quickly leading to the formation of alumni chapters throughout the state.

The alumni also settled a nagging campus issue in 1900, though the result didn’t agree with the wishes of most UT students: the University colors.

Baseball was the favorite diversion among students in the University’s nascent years, and afternoon inter-class games were played on the relatively flat northwest corner of the Forty Acres. The team waiting to bat often took shade under one of the old trees that are today known as the Battle Oaks. In spring 1885, a student enrolled who claimed to have the only curve ball pitch in the state. Eager to play someone other than themselves, University students formed a team “that rated high in brain power, low in brute force,” and challenged any Texas college to a game. The city of Georgetown, 30 miles north of Austin, boasted its own “baseball nine” made entirely of students from Southwestern University, and invited UT to a picnic and baseball contest. The date was set for April 21, and a train was chartered.

It was a cloudy and gloomy Tuesday morning when the baseball team, along with most of the student body, arrived at the train station at Third Street and Congress Avenue, and boarded passenger cars bound for Georgetown. All was on schedule until the final whistle sounded. Just as the train was ready to depart, Miss Gussie Brown from (of all places) Orange, Texas, urgently announced the need for some ribbon to identify UT supporters.

In the late 19th century, sports fans often wore colored ribbons on their lapels to show team loyalty. Enterprising male college students sported longer ribbons, so they would have extra to share with a pretty co-ed who had none. The truly ingenious, or just plain desperate, wore ribbons almost down to their knees.

Two of Gussie’s student companions, Venable Proctor and Clarence Miller, always eager to impress the ladies, took on the mission, jumped off the train, and sprinted almost a  block north along the east side of Congress Avenue to Carl Beryman’s General Store. Out of breath, they managed to ask the shopkeeper for three bolts of two colors of ribbon. “Which colors?” the merchant inquired. “Anything,” was the hurried gasp. After all, the train was leaving the station.

The shopkeeper chose ribbons in colors of which he had the most in stock: white, which was popular for weddings and parties, and bright orange, which was rarely bought.

Loaded with their supplies, Proctor and Miller ran back and boarded the train just as it was leaving the station. Along the way, the ribbon was divided and distributed to nearly everyone.

“It is rumored that the Austin boys are quite likely to get defeated, but their friends here hope they will come back victorious,” the Austin Daily Statesman said. Unfortunately, the newspaper’s prediction was accurate. Rain dampened the afternoon game, the curve ball curved not, and Texas outfielders ran weary miles in a lost cause. But the University’s colors were christened, “as all true colors should be, on a dire and stricken field.”

Or were they? While orange and white came first, other color combinations were used by students. In its inaugural game on Thanksgiving Day in Dallas, the 1893 UT football team wore black and white uniforms, topped by yellow hats. The program claimed UT’s colors were “old gold and white.” At the time, all University buildings were built of golden-yellow Austin pressed brick and cream-colored limestone trim quarried from Cedar Park. At a distance, the campus’ soft glean of gold and white under a bright Texas sun was clear. The students identified with their surroundings and declared it on their uniforms.

Of course, gold and white weren’t official, either. The football team quickly decided yellow was not a “manly” team hue and returned to orange. But orange and white had its detractors. The orange tended to bleed when washed, and white, considered by some as a color of surrender, soiled quickly and was difficult to clean. In 1898, the University hired David Edwards as football coach. A recent graduate of Princeton University, Edwards reviewed the problems with the orange and white uniforms, and proposed a radical solution. The colors of his alma mater were orange and black. If the orange bled when washed, the black wouldn’t show it, and the black color effectively hid any stubborn dirt stains. Why not substitute the Texas white with a darker color for the same reasons?

In October 1898, the University’s Athletic Council met with Coach Edwards and summarily approved the idea. John Philips, a student member of the Council and the manager of the football team, was instructed to order new football jerseys and substitute a dark color for white. Not wanting to duplicate Princeton’s colors, Philips avoided black and selected another shade that would conceal dirt stains just as well: maroon. Orange and maroon striped football jerseys were ordered immediately and arrived before the end of the month, just in time for the first home game. Together, the football team strutted down Congress Avenue to Sixth Street in their new uniforms, causing quite a stir.

The new color combination was a hit with students, and campus newspapers were soon doting on the fortunes of the football eleven, urging “victory for the Orange and Maroon.” The following spring, the baseball team followed suit.

Of course, while the uniforms might have been easier to manage, any perception of a common set of University colors had quickly tumbled into chaos. Most of the Austin students were smitten with orange and maroon, but a sizeable group of alumni defended orange and white, and a few still clung to gold and white. To add to the confusion, medical students in Galveston advocated royal blue.

By 1900, the color issue could no longer be overlooked, and a University-wide vote, including the medical branch, was organized for the spring. As the Austin students were partial to orange and maroon, and the medical students pushed royal blue, the end of orange and white seemed assured.

But the alumni were not to be ignored. Informed of the students’ plans and the likely outcome, the Executive Council of the Alumni Association sent a letter to University president William Prather. It questioned the student’s authority, arguing that “the body of students who at present happen to be attending the University, acting alone, is without jurisdiction to change the colors of the institution.” The committee asked that the matter be resolved through “proper University authorities,” with due consideration given to the views of alumni.

President Prather and the Board of Regents agreed, and allowed the alumni to vote with the students. Ballots were mailed, and votes were to be accepted through April 1.

When the ballot box was opened, exactly 1,111 votes had been cast — 554 from the Austin campus, 148 from the medical school, and 409 from the alumni. Orange and white received 562 votes and won the majority by just seven ballots.

As the ranks of UT alumni continued to swell, the activities of the Association became more numerous and diverse. The first scholarship, $100, was awarded in 1899 — made possible through $1 contributions, some of them solicited in person by fellow alumni. Two years later, the Association created the Lester Bugbee Scholarship Fund. Named after its most active supporter, the fund grew with donations and membership dues. The investment was a good one, as its first beneficiary, Conrad Shuddemagen, graduated in 1902 as a member of Phi Beta Kappa.

In 1910, the Association voted to extend membership to all who had attended The University of Texas. To accommodate the growth, UT hired John Lomax as its first alumni secretary. Lomax was also an assistant registrar and secretary to the faculty, but gave much of his time to the Association. His office, Room 47 on the first floor of the old Main Building, was dubbed the “Alumni Room,” and became the Association’s first headquarters.

Among Lomax’s many challenges, communication with the alumni was most important. The Association had matured to a point where it was no longer just meeting once a year to socialize, but also taking great interest in the affairs and welfare of the University. In December 1912, four members of the Executive Council gathered at Lomax’s home for a grand turkey dinner and to discuss founding an alumni magazine. After some discussion, the group decided to call the publication The Alcalde in honor of Governor Roberts, whose nickname was the “Old Alcalde.”

The magazine made its debut the following April, with Fritz Lanham as editor. Wrote UT president Sidney Mezes: “I rejoice in my heart at the inauguration of The Alcalde. It should be a bond of ever-growing power tying former students to each other and to Alma Mater.” The next year, at its 1914 spring meeting, the UT Alumni Association officially renamed itself The Ex-Students’ Association of
The University of Texas. A new era of building and serving UT was well on its way.