Hard by the place of slaughter, in the green bushes, a delicate ear perceives the hum of the Grasshoppers.

It is the sort of noise that a spinning-wheel makes, a very unobtrusive sound, a vague rustle of dry membranes rubbed together.

Above this dull bass there rises, at intervals, a hurried, very shrill, almost metallic clicking.

There you have the air and the recitative, intersected by pauses.

The rest is the accompaniment.
Despite the assistance of a bass, it is a poor concert, very poor indeed, though there are about ten executants in my immediate vicinity.
The tone lacks intensity.