There is, then, a unit of time on which all verse-rhythms, like all musical rhythms, are based; and this is what we commonly call in music the measure, and in verse, the foot, I shall recur to this matter a little later in considering the terminology of the subject; for the present let us return to the relations of verse and music. Both, we have seen, are based on the recurrence of accented sounds at equal time-intervals. There is some difference, however, in the emphasis which one naturally places on the respective parts of the statement. In music we feel that the fact of chief importance is that the measures shall be equal in time, while the recurring accent seems a mere means of marking this equality; but in verse we feel that the chief fact is that the accents shall recur, the equality of time-intervals being in a sense a secondary source of pleasure. In music, therefore, as we have seen, we treat departures from regularity of time-intervals as somewhat more exceptional than in verse. But the rhythm would suffer, would even disappear, were either element wholly removed.
If we look for further distinctions between verse and music, we find them in the separate sounds which go to make up the unit-measures. Not only are the measures of music of mathematically equal length, but all the sounds bear exact time-relations to each other: each is either half as long, or twice as long, or a quarter as long, or four times as long, as its neighbor. On the other hand, the number of separate sounds in the measure constantly varies; it is sufficient that the total length be that of the full measure. In verse these conditions are reversed. The separate syllables, while they doubtless vary in length, are not mathematically coördinated as to duration by the ordinary reader. It is almost as difficult to say just what the time-relation of any two adjacent syllables is, as to be sure that one is stressed just twice as strongly as the other. On the other hand, the number of syllables in the foot (in good modern English verse) is tolerably constant.
For the sake of completeness, one may add two other fundamental distinctions which, apart from the elements of rhythm, differentiate verse from music. Music, apart from rhythm, characteristically depends on variation of pitch, and only incidentally (as in the case of the use of different instruments in orchestration) on variation of sound-quality; whereas verse, apart from rhythm, characteristically depends on variation of sound-quality,—that is, on the different sounds of the different words,—and only incidentally on changes of pitch. Finally, the changing sounds of music are only vaguely symbolic, while the changing sounds of verse are symbolic of definite ideas.
For the sake of easy comparison we may put these observations in a rough sort of table:
| Music | Verse |
| Rhythmical Sound, i.e. | |
| Recurrence of accented sounds at equal time-intervals. | Recurrence of accented sounds at equal time-intervals. |
| Separate sounds mathematically related in length, and constantly varying in number and arrangement. | Separate sounds not mathematically related in length, and generally with unchanged number and arrangement. |
| Apart from rhythm, dependent on variation of pitch (incidentally on sound-quality). | Apart from rhythm, dependent on variation of sound-quality (incidentally on pitch). |
| Sounds vaguely symbolic. | Sounds symbolic of definite ideas. |
Let us now consider more closely the time-values of the separate syllables of verse, asking just what we mean by a "long" or a "short" syllable in English. It has already been indicated that the ear recognizes no such fixed proportions in the length of our syllables as are recognized for musical notes, or as are postulated for the syllables of Greek and Latin verse. It must also be remembered that the terms "long" and "short," as commonly used of English vowels, are of little significance for the matter of real quantity. They are applied for historical reasons, and do not describe present facts. Thus we call the o in "hotel" long, and that in "cot" short; but it is fairly clear that the o of "cot" takes rather more time, as commonly uttered, than that of "hotel." The so-called "short o" is, in fact, a sound so open that it has lost the o-quality. In the same way what we call "long a" is a short-e sound diphthongized. We cannot be said to preserve in modern English any single vowels with fixed long quantity, such as we hear in German words like Saal and See,—sounds which obviously take more time in utterance than others.
Can we speak accurately, then, of long syllables and short syllables in modern English? It may be said that we have a large number of genuine diphthongs; and such double sounds, especially where they are so open as to require unusual effort on the part of the vocal organs (like -ow, for example), may be assumed to take a longer time in utterance than monophthongs. Even such a sound as is represented by -au or -aw, though it has but slight diphthongal quality, seems to sound longer than most monophthongs. But in none of these cases does ordinary pronunciation make the sound-length at all conspicuous, except where it coincides with strong stress; and it requires a moment's reasoning to convince one's self that the vowel in fine is any longer than that in fan. It is more than doubtful, then, whether our vowel sounds can be regarded as of significance for metrical time. A word like "saw" or "now," occurring in such a place in the verse as to be passed over with the briefest and lightest utterance, would be pronounced with rapidity by the ordinary reader, with no thought that the vowel-sound was too "long."
But in the earlier languages a syllable might be long, not only from the presence of a long vowel, but also from the presence of two or more consonants following the vowel. May this be said to hold good for modern English? In general, prolonged consonantal sounds seem to be avoided, as in the case of vowels. We pass over them rapidly, and have, for instance, no such clearly stopped syllables due to double consonants as are heard in Italian words like madonna. Yet we cannot doubt that two or three consonants require more time than one, and in words like strength, flushed, fists, and the like, every one would find the consonantal length perceptible. More than this, two consonants often serve to "close" the preceding syllable, by making it impossible to run the consonant at the end of it over into the following syllable, and hence really lengthen it. This, of course, is the reason why the first syllable of the Latin avis is said to be short, but that of alvus to be long. The Elizabethan metrists tried to apply these Latin rules of "quantity by position" to all English words; and many modern English writers, who have been trained from childhood in the appreciation of Latin quantities, easily perceive the differing consonantal quantities of English words. These quantities may, then, certainly be said to exist; but in ordinary English pronunciation, and to the ordinary, untrained English ear, they must be strongly marked in order to attract attention. When thus strongly marked, they doubtless play some part in the structure of verse. In some lines attributed to Raleigh,
"His desire is a dureless content,
And a trustless joy,"
the syllable trust-occupies the time of two syllables; the typical metre would require something like