At the close of my engagement at Dublin, in the beginning of October, 1868, a great demonstration took place in honour of Mdlle. Titiens, it being the last night of the season. Weber's opera of _Oberon_ was performed, and after Titiens had sung the exacting air of the third act, "Ocean, thou Mighty Monster," a most animated scene took place, many requiring the great air to be repeated, whilst others called out the names of different Irish songs. The uproar lasted upwards of fifteen minutes before silence could be restored, when it was decided that "The Last Rose of Summer" should be given. But the orchestra had no music and the conductor would not venture a performance without it. Further delay and further uproar took place, until at length Signor Bettini, who had undertaken the _rôle_ of "Oberon," came from the wing, pulling on a cottage piano, whilst Titiens helped the conductor to get out of the orchestra in order to accompany her. As Bettini was turning the piano round, in consequence of the slope of the stage it fell right over, causing an immense cheer from the gods, when no less than five demons (who were to appear in the next scene of _Oberon_) rushed from the wings to raise it up again on its legs. At length order was restored, and such was the silence that when Mdlle. Titiens was on the point of beginning the beautiful air I remember taking a pin from my collar and dropping it on the stage in order to give a practical and effective illustration of the old saying that you "could hear a pin drop." No sooner had the singer finished the last verse than a roar of admiration was heard, so loud, so overpowering, that I can only compare it to the belching forth of huge pieces of artillery. At the close of the opera a great crowd, composed of the public and the medical students who habitually occupy the gallery (always without their coats, sometimes without their waistcoats, occasionally without their shirts), was awaiting the Queen of Song's departure. They had actually cut the traces of her carriage, and from a ship chandler's opposite had got two long coils of rope which they fastened to the vehicle. Titiens shortly afterwards appeared, amidst deafening cheers, and the procession started. No less than a dozen of the singer's most enthusiastic admirers were on the roof letting off fireworks. All went on in something like order until with our two long strings of volunteer horses we arrived at Dawson Street, when, in consequence of no previous arrangement having been made, one half of the team went up Dawson Street and the other half down Nassau Street, the result being a violent collision against Morrison's Hotel. It was not without considerable difficulty and delay that things could be readjusted.