Irish Enthusiasm

On the last night of her Dublin run in 1868, soprano Mlle. Titiens got a level of adoration that even opera stars rarely see. After Weber’s *Oberon* aria “Ocean, Thou Mighty Monster,” the house leapt to its feet—some shouting for an encore, others demanding Irish favorites. She chose “The Last Rose of Summer,” but the orchestra had no music. A small piano was wheeled onstage, the conductor climbed out of the pit, and—on the sloping stage—the piano promptly tipped over. From the wings, several chorus members dressed as demons dashed out to set it upright.

After the opera, students swarmed the stage door, cut the carriage traces, replaced them with two long ropes, and hauled Titiens through the streets like a victory parade—fireworks and all. At one corner the rope teams disagreed on the route, pulled in opposite directions, and the carriage slammed into a building. They regrouped and continued.

At the hotel they laid their coats on the pavement as a carpet for her, then kept calling for a song for over an hour while police failed to disperse them. Finally an official begged Titiens to help prevent trouble. She appeared at the window and promised one more “Last Rose of Summer” if they went home “quiet as mice.” She sang, and the crowd vanished instantly. The next day, the manager—Colonel Mapleson—received the bill: the students had ‘borrowed’ the horses and never returned them.