Before I start my attack—as I fear it is—upon the composers, the audiences and the traditions of opera, I think it may be valuable to dismiss for the moment all the accepted operatic beliefs and to try to frame some a priori plan which should act as the rough model for all the varieties of what is commonly called opera. Presume for five minutes that we know orchestral works and choral works, that chamber music has been exploited in all its branches and that the theatre, which has—for the sake of the premiss—been allowed to keep its history and development, has only had an effect on music to the extent of the interpretation of songs. It suddenly occurs to a member of the audience, who has heard—and seen, remember—a certain song well interpreted, that it might be possible to stage the dramatic story that has just been sung. The idea takes such root that in less than no time—for when we are presuming there are no limits to our presumptions—a performance is arranged which is to take place on a stage, with singers in costume, miming to the best of their very poor ability, and an orchestra providing a stirring and suitable accompaniment. How does this differ from the entertainments we have known for so long—according to our premiss? We have had singers before, and orchestras, and even suitable grimaces made by the singers in moments of intense passion, but the one novelty is the dressing up of the singers and the placing of them on the stage with a movable curtain, scenery and Schwäbe-Häselt lighting.