The human foot and the human hand

Some slight foundation for such a notion might be imagined to exist in the fact (supposing the ancients to have been acquainted with it) that the distribution of the nerves to the ring-finger is rather peculiar. The peculiarity will be readily understood by reference to the accompanying drawing (fig. 69). Two chief nerves are seen descending, in their course from the brain, along the arm and forearm, to supply sensation to the palmar surface of the hand. One (A), the larger of the two, passes in front of the middle of the wrist, and divides into branches which are distributed to the skin of the thumb, of the fore and middle fingers, and of the outer side of the ring-finger. The other nerve (B) lies on the inner side of the forearm and wrist, and its branches go to the skin of the little finger, and of the inner side of the ring-finger. You see, therefore, that there is, in this finger, a meeting of the branches of the two nerves; the two sides of the finger being supplied by different nerves. It would be a mistake, however, to suppose that it gains any superiority in sensitiveness or sympathetic relations by this arrangement; and this distribution of the nerves certainly does not offer so probable an explanation of the selection of that finger for the honourable office of ring-bearer as the one I have suggested.

I must remark, here, that the nerve (B), in passing from the arm to the forearm, lies on the inner side of the back of the elbow, and is popularly known by the misnomer of the “funny-bone‍8.” It lies, pretty much out of harm’s way, in a well-protected channel between two bones. Nevertheless, it is now and then hurt; and you know that when the “funny-bone” is struck, a peculiar pain, or tingling, is experienced along the little finger and the adjacent side of the ring-finger.

The practice of wearing rings upon the hand is a very ancient one. In some instances they were badges of slavery. More generally they were marks of high esteem or authority; as when “Pharaoh took off his ring from his hand and put it upon Joseph’s hand,” and when “Ahasuerus took off his ring, which he had taken from Haman, and gave it to Mordecai.” The Roman knights also wore rings of gold. Sometimes rings were worn as charms against diseases; a practice which has been revived in our own day. They were placed upon any of the fingers, and upon the right hand as well as the left. Thus we read in Jeremiah, “though Coniah the son of Jehoiakim king of Judah were the signet upon my right hand.” The preference of the left hand and of the ring-finger seems to be comparatively modern, originating, probably, when the ring was made lighter and more fragile, and was, at the same time, adorned with precious stones, and when it became, therefore, desirable to place it upon the part of the hand where it is least exposed to injury.

The Monkey’s Hand.

Most of you have spent some time in watching the inmates of that interesting part of a zoological collection, the Monkeys’ cage, and have observed how nearly the hand of that animal resembles the human hand, in the presence of a thumb, in the variety and celerity of its movements, in the facility with which it can catch and pick up objects and hold them up to the mouth, and in some other points. A little closer observation, however, will show that there are some differences between the two. The several parts do not bear the same relation to one another in the Monkey’s hand which they do in the human hand; neither have they quite so great variety or range of movement. The hand is altogether narrower, and straighter. The thumb is shorter and less strong, scarcely reaching beyond the knuckle of the fore-finger. The fingers, on the contrary, are longer and of more uniform length; they do not admit of being separated so widely from each other in a fan-like manner; and the metacarpal bones at the edges of the hand, i. e. the metacarpal bones of the thumb and of the ring and little fingers, have not the same amount of play upon the wrist. Hence the thumb and the fingers of the Monkey cannot be opposed to one another so easily as in man; neither can they be so advanced in front of the middle finger as to form a hollow or cup, in the way I described when speaking of the hollow of the palm and the different lengths of the fingers in the Human hand. When you throw a Monkey a nut he usually picks it up and holds it between the thumb and the side of the bent fore-finger, not between the tips of the thumb and fingers. The length of the fingers adapts the Monkey’s hand well for clasping firmly the branches of trees, and assisting the animal to climb about in its native forests, or to hold on to the bars of its cage; and so the part answers the requirements of the creature better than if these qualities had been sacrificed to a greater regard for variety and range of movement.

The Hand the Organ of the Will.

The human hand is peculiarly an organ devoted to the will, being more directly and completely under its influence than is any other part of the body. The Will, remember, is that self-directing faculty which can be said to exist, definitely and decidedly, in Man alone, which is associated in him with the responsibility attaching to the selection between good and evil, and which is given to him to fit him to be the reasonable servant of his Maker, and upon which, therefore, his dignity, and his capability for occupying a position between the low animal and the high spiritual world, so much depend. How appropriate is it, then, that the will should have a special organ assigned as its more peculiar minister. It is to the complete subjection of the hand to the will, no less than to the combination of strength with variety and delicacy in its movements, that Man is indebted for his dominion over the rest of the animal world, and for the ability to execute the wonderful works which his genius designs.

When we reflect how essential is the hand to Man’s well-being, power, and progress, and upon the infinite variety of purposes which it serves in obedience to the will, we are not surprised that the construction of the foot, indeed of every part of the frame, should have reference to the object of liberating the hand from the subordinate work of locomotion to a degree which we find in no other animal, and of leaving it free to execute its higher offices in a ready and efficient manner.

But, after all, notwithstanding the excellence of its mechanism and its intimate relation to the will, what would the hand be without the reflecting and designing Mind—the mind that can build upon the past and prepare for the future, and so carry on the ever-advancing work of human civilization and progress. Without it Man would remain stationary, like the other animals; and, as age succeeded age, the hand would only suffice to provide the necessary requirements of the body. Nay, even this is saying too much; for without the mind, without, at least, some higher instinctive or reflective faculty than the other animals possess, Man would, in reality, be inferior to them. He would be absolutely unable to maintain his existence, and would be a miserable victim to the fineness of his organisation. His hand would fail to supply him with food, or to defend him against his numerous enemies, or to provide for the protection of his delicate and sensitive frame from the inclemency of the elements.

The real excellence of the human hand—and the remark applies equally to the whole human body—consists, not in the admirable construction of its several parts, nor in their well-adjusted relation to one another, so much as in the adaptation of the whole to the mind that presides over it. This it is that renders Man the lord of the creation, that enables him to subdue all his foes, and gives him, in some measure, power over the elements, so that land and water, fire and air, are made to serve his purpose. By this harmonious co-aptation of mind and body Man is rendered cosmopolitan, being able to thrive in every clime, from the regions of continual snow to those burning equatorial plains where even reptiles perish from the heat and drought, and being able to convert the barren plain into a fertile field, and to draw water out of the stony rock.

At the late meeting of the British Association at Oxford, a gentleman related that he had a monkey which was very partial to oysters, and was very fond of playing with a hammer; but he never could be taught to use the hammer for the purpose of breaking the oyster-shells to gratify his appetite. How wide a gulf does the absence of intelligence in this simple matter indicate between ourselves and the animal that approaches nearest to us!

The Hand an Organ of Expression.

Further, we cannot fail to recognise and admire the adaptation of the hand to the mind at all ages, and under various circumstances; in its weakness and suppleness, and in its purposeless and playful movements in infancy and childhood; in its gradually increasing strength and steadiness as the intellect ripens; in the stiffness and shakiness of declining years; in the iron grasp of the artizan; in the light delicate touch of the lady; in the twirlings, fumblings, and contortions of the idiot; in the stealthy movements of the thief; in the tremulousness of the drunkard; in the open-handedness of the liberal man; and in the close-fistedness of the niggard.

Thus the hand becomes an organ of expression and an index of character. What would the nervous young gentleman in a morning call give to be quit of these tale-telling members; or what would he do without a hat or a stick to employ and amuse them? How effective an auxiliary to the orator is the wave of the hand, or, even, the movement of a finger. Some men, indeed, seem to owe the efficiency of their declamations as much to the hand as to the tongue. I have seen a practised orator (he was a man of the most complete self-possession) quell an excited audience by one determined movement of his hand. It happened to me to hear two of the most celebrated preachers of the day within a short period. In each of them the movements of the hand were remarkable, though very different. In one, the free, impassioned, but natural, and, therefore, easy action of the hand showed a deep and genuine interest in the subject, and helped to waft the fervid sentiments straight from his own heart to the hearts of his audience. In the other, who was a no less accomplished speaker, the constrained and carefully regulated movements of the hands were evidently the result of forethought and study; they were intended to be impressive, but were too obviously done for effect; and, therefore, were far less effective as well as less pleasing.

Our great and venerable orator, as well as high authority on the art of speaking (Lord Brougham), tells us that the subject of a speech should be carefully studied, and the sequences well adjusted. He says that, in the most effective passages, even of practised speakers, the exact words are usually selected beforehand; but he is silent respecting the actions by which they should be accompanied. These, at least, should be unpremeditated; and they will best assist to convey to others the real feelings and emotions when they are the simple result of the natural working of the mind upon the body.

The kind of expression that lies in the hand, being much dependent on the effect of the muscles upon it, is very hard for the artist to catch, though very important to the excellence of the picture. Painters, usually, make the hand a subject of careful study, but rarely succeed in throwing the proper amount, either of animation or of listlessness, into it. In portraits, especially, the hands are a difficult part to treat satisfactorily; yet the artist feels that they are too important not to have a prominent place, and he, commonly, imposes upon himself the task of representing them both in full. I have seen them drawn held up in front, like the paws of a kangaroo, in an otherwise good picture. The stereotyped position in portraits is that one hand lies upon a table, though it, probably, evinces an uneasiness there, while the other rests, perhaps equally uneasily, upon the arm of a chair. Vandyck, in whose paintings the hand usually forms a prominent feature, is considered to have peculiarly excelled in imparting to it a sentimental air imbued with deep pathos.

Shaking Hands.

How much do we learn of a man by his “SHAKE-OF-HAND.” Who would expect to get a handsome donation, or a donation at all, from one who puts out two fingers to be shaken and keeps the others bent as upon an “itching palm”? How different is the impression conveyed by the hand which is coldly held out to be shaken and slips away again as soon as decently may be, and the hand which comes boldly and warmly forward and unwillingly relinquishes its hearty grasp? Sometimes one’s hand finds itself comfortably enclosed, nursed, as it were, between both hands of a friend, an elderly friend probably; or it is shaken from side to side in a peculiar short brisk manner. In either case we are instinctively convinced that we have to do with a warm and kindly heart. In a momentary squeeze of the hand how much of the heart often oozes through the fingers; and who that ever experienced it has forgotten the feeling conveyed by the eloquent pressure of the hand of a dying friend, when the tongue has ceased to speak?

Why do we shake hands? It is a very old-fashioned way of indicating friendship. Jehu said to Jehonadab, “Is thine heart right as my heart is with thine heart? If it be, give me thine hand.” It is not merely an old-fashioned custom; it is a strictly natural one, and, as usual in such cases, we may find a physiological reason, if we will only take the pains to search for it. The Animals cultivate friendship by the sense of touch, as well as by the senses of smell, hearing, and sight; and for this purpose they employ the most sensitive parts of their bodies. They rub their noses together, or they lick one another with their tongues. Now, the hand is a part of the human body in which the sense of touch is highly developed; and, after the manner of the animals, we not only like to see and hear our friend (we do not usually smell him, though Isaac, when his eyes were dim, resorted to this sense as a means of recognition), we, also, touch him, and promote the kindly feelings by the contact and reciprocal pressure of the sensitive hands.

Observe, too, how this principle is illustrated by another of our modes of greeting. When we wish to determine whether a substance be perfectly smooth and are not quite satisfied with the information conveyed by the fingers, we apply it to the LIPS and rub it gently upon them. We do so, because we know by experience that the sense of touch is more acutely developed in the lips than in the hands. Accordingly, when we wish to reciprocate the warmer feelings we are not content with the contact of the hands, and we bring the lips into the service. A SHAKE-OF-HANDS suffices for friendship, in undemonstrative England at least; but a KISS is the token of a more tender affection.

Possibly it occurs to you that the Tongue is more sensitive than either the hands or the lips. You have observed that it will detect an inequality of surface that escapes them both, and that minute, indeed, is the flaw in a tooth which eludes its searching touch. You are right. The sense of touch is more exquisite in the tongue than in any other part of the body; and to carry out my theory, it may be suggested that the tongue should be used for the purposes of which we are speaking. It is so by some of the lower animals. But, in man, this organ has work enough to do in the cultivation and expression of friendship in its own peculiar way; and there are obvious objections to the employment of it in a more direct manner for this purpose.

The Skin of the Hand.

By the aid of the accompanying drawings you will be able to form some idea of the structure of the SKIN of the hand.

One of them (fig. 70) represents a section of the skin, made perpendicular to the surface, as seen under the microscope. It is from the end of the thumb, and includes three of those delicate lines, or ridges that are found there.

The superficial, or uppermost strata (a and b), are the “Cuticle” or “false skin.” The outer layer (a) is hard, horny, and dry. It is composed of numerous fine scales laid upon one another, like the tiles upon the roof of a house, but adhering more closely together, so as to form one continuous sheet extending all over the body. The outermost of these scales are continually being shed, peeling off as scurf, or being rubbed off; and fresh ones are supplied by the next layer (b), which is a softer material and lies immediately upon the surface of the “cutis” or “true skin.”

This softer layer (b) is often called the “Rete Mucosum.” It is made up of minute bags or bladders, named “cells” by anatomists, which grow and propagate upon the exterior of the true skin, being nourished by the blood in the skin. Those which lie nearest the cutis are the youngest and the softest. Gradually they are pushed outwards by their successors or offspring; and, as they approach the surface, they become flatter and drier and more adherent to one another, and are finally converted into the thin scales of the cuticle. Thus, there is no real line of division between the cuticle and the rete mucosum; but the cells of the latter are gradually transformed into the scales of the former.

The rete mucosum is thicker in the Negro than in the white man, and contributes somewhat to the softness of his skin. It contains also the colouring matter in the form of minute black particles diffused among its cells (fig. 72). These particles disappear, more or less, as the cells become changed into scales; hence the outer part of the cuticle of the Negro is not so dark as the rete mucosum, but, as it is transparent, or nearly so, it allows the dark colour of the rete to show through it.

Persons commonly speak of the cuticle as if it were the whole thickness of the skin. Thus, when a blister has drawn, they say the skin is raised; whereas it is only the cuticle. This is forced off from the skin by the fluid effused into its softer layer—i. e. into the rete—in consequence of the irritating influence of the blister.

The cuticle has no nerves, and, therefore, no feeling. It may be cut or torn without pain. The snipping of a blister with the scissors is not felt, because the cuticle only is touched. It forms a covering to the whole surface of the body, and is invaluable as a means of preventing too great evaporation. Without it we should be dried up, almost mummified, by the end of a summer’s day. It also protects the delicate sensitive skin underneath. How sore is the knuckle when the cuticle has been rubbed off! The cuticle has, moreover, the accommodating property of becoming thickest where it is most wanted, as on the sole of the foot, and on the palms of the hands of blacksmiths, and artizans, and persons who handle the oar. And if any other part of the body be subjected to much friction, for instance, the knees of housemaids, or the shoulders of men who carry packs, the cuticle soon becomes thickened there.

Beneath the cuticle lies the “Cutis” or “True Skin” (c, fig. 70, and c and d, fig. 71). It is a tough structure consisting of interlacing fibrous and fine muscular tissue, and contains the blood-vessels and nerves. The cuticle may be pared off without any bleeding; but directly the skin is wounded the blood flows. The cutis does not present an even surface next the cuticle, but shoots out into a number of little finger-like processes, called “Papillæ,” which project into the contiguous soft stratum of the cuticle, and are embedded in it. Thus the superficies of the skin is increased; and as the blood-vessels and nerves of the cutis are continued into the papillæ, they contribute very greatly to the sensitiveness of the skin. They are most numerous in parts where the sensitiveness of the skin is greatest; for instance, they are more numerous on the palmar, than on the dorsal, surface of the hand. Near the ends of the fingers and thumb they are arranged in a linear manner, forming the delicate ridges that encircle the cones of the pulps. Sections of these ridges are represented in fig. 70.

The superficial or papillary part of the cutis is of finer and more delicate structure than the deeper or fibrous layer, and is, therefore, sometimes described as a separate layer. It is so represented in the accompanying figure (71, c).

As we are upon the subject of the cuticle and the papillæ, I will take the opportunity to say a word respecting two diseases of these structures, in which most of you, probably, have a personal interest. I mean “Warts” and “Corns.”

A Wart (fig. 74) depends chiefly on a diseased state of the papillary stratum of the skin. The papillæ become coarse and grow up beyond the level of the surrounding skin, so as to present an uneven or “warty” surface. They carry a layer of cuticle before them. This layer is usually thin, so that the wart bleeds easily when it is rubbed. Sometimes, however, it is very thick and hard like a piece of horn. We, now and then, hear of a horn growing upon some part of the body, perhaps on the forehead. Such a horn is, usually, nothing more than a conical mass of cuticle formed upon the surface of a large wart. Warts are generally caused by something irritating the skin, as dirt or soot rubbed into the cuticle. For this reason they are more frequent upon the hands than upon other parts of the body.

In a Corn (fig. 73), also, the papillæ are somewhat enlarged; and this accounts in part for the great tenderness of corns. But the primary and essential feature of a corn is a thickened state of the cuticle. This is caused by too great rapidity in its formation, and is, usually, dependent upon pressure, especially if the pressure be combined with some friction. Hence corns are most commonly found upon the foot, and upon the parts of the foot, where the skin is subject to pressure and rubbing against the shoe. The drawing shows the appearance presented by a vertical section through a corn and through a small portion of the skin on either side. The accumulated layers of cuticle are seen, and the enlarged papillæ shooting up into them. I need scarcely add that it is owing to ignorance, or something worse, when corn-cutters talk of curing the malady by taking out the roots; for, corns, evidently, have no roots.

One word of advice about corn-cutting. Most persons have some experience in this art, and some opportunity of practising it on themselves; and many pride themselves on their skill in it. The usual plan is to shave off layer after layer from the whole surface of the corn; and this, by lessening the projection of the corn, may give relief for a few days, though it does not always do that. Soon, however, the distress returns; and the area of the corn increases after each operation. Now, I would have you observe that it is at the middle of the corn that the papillæ are most enlarged; and it is here that the formation of cuticle goes on most quickly, giving rise to the little white cone or cones often seen in a corn and sometimes wrongly called the roots. The proper mode is to confine the cutting to this part, and to remove as much of the thickened cuticle as you can from this spot, digging, as it were, a hole in the middle and leaving the circumference intact. The circumference, which is not usually tender, thus forms a wall round the excavated centre and defends it from pressure; and great relief is experienced. Further benefit will be found from covering the corn with some soft adhesive plaster; and you may sometimes, with advantage, lightly apply common caustic before putting on the plaster. If you follow these directions carefully you may be your own chiropodists, and almost defy your bootmakers.

If, in cutting a corn, you go too deeply, you will wound the tops of the papillæ and cause some bleeding; this is not however usually followed by any ill consequences.

Nails.

Almost all vegetable as well as animal surfaces are covered with some kind of cuticle. It forms the smooth exterior of a leaf and the rind of an apple; and the soft down of a moth or a butterfly, the scales of fish, the feathers and claws of birds, the quills of the porcupine, the horns of oxen and the hoofs of the horse are examples of modifications of cuticle. NAILS and HAIR are also of this nature. They are both continuous with the cuticle, and peel off with it when it is, by any process, separated from the skin. Both are formed, like the cuticle, of compressed plates or scales matted together; and these are continually being shed or rubbed off on the one side, and supplied from the rete mucosum on the other.

The rete mucosum, it should be stated, extends over the whole surface of the body. In most situations, as already mentioned, it is the medium from which the ordinary cuticle is produced; but on the upper part of the ends of the fingers and toes it is converted into nail, and in the hair follicles, as I will presently describe, it is transformed into hair.

The drawings will help you to understand the relation of the nails to the cuticle and the cutis. In the upper of the three (fig. 75) the nail with the cuticle has been detached from the cutis, so that the continuity of the two, at either end, is shown. In the middle one (fig. 76) it is represented lying in its bed in the cutis; its thin hinder edge being received into a furrow made for it in the cutis. The layer of rete mucosum (b) extends behind and beneath it, between it (d) and the cutis (c), and continually adds fresh material to the nail, just as, in other parts, it adds to the substance of the cuticle. The cuticle, or white line (a) is continuous with the nail at the sides as well as at either end. The lower figure (77) shows the bed of the cutis in which the nail reposes, the nail as well as the adjacent cuticle and the rete having been cleared away.

Thus the addition from the rete—in other words the growth of the nail—takes place at the hinder edge and at the under surface. In consequence of the addition from behind the nail is increased in length and is pushed forward; and as it advances forwards it receives accessions from beneath, which increase its thickness and strength. Unless they be cut, or worn down, the nails grow to an indefinite length; and, when they extend beyond the tips of the fingers, their edges are bent in towards each other, and they become curved like claws. This tendency to a convex form is shown also if the nails be not properly supported by the pulps of the fingers. For instance, when persons become emaciated the pulps of the fingers usually participate in the general wasting and the nails become curved. Hence this shape of the nails has been regarded as an indication of consumption. You will understand, however, from what I have said that it is not really a symptom of any one particular disease. It simply indicates that, from some cause or other, the nutrition of the body is not properly maintained.

The Dervishes in some parts of Asia allow the thumb-nail to grow long, and then pare it to a point, so as to be able to write with it. Dr Wolff, the Eastern traveller, has told me that he has repeatedly seen this done, and that he has in his possession manuscripts written in this way.

Beneath the nail the cutis is disposed in a series of parallel ridges (fig. 78) with intervening furrows. These take the same direction as the nail, and, indeed, give rise to the fine lines that you see upon the surface of the nail. The rete mucosum, or deep soft layer of the nail, extends into the furrows between the ridges, just as the soft stratum of the cuticle extends between the papillæ of the cutis. It thus serves to keep the nail steady in its place, while it permits a certain amount of movement, and allows the nail to slide forwards upon the skin under the pressure caused by the growth at its hinder edge.

A little in front of the root of the nail the ridges of the cutis suddenly become larger and more vascular. This gives a pink hue to the nail in the greater part of its extent; while the hinder portion, separated from the front by a crescentic line, is white, in consequence of the subjacent cutis being there, more pale. You will, at once, recognise the distinction between these parts by looking at your own nails.

The ridges and furrows serve, like the papillæ in other parts of the skin, to increase the surface of the cutis; and, by affording more space for the distribution of the vessels and nerves, they contribute to the sensitiveness of the part, and account for the severe pain which is caused when any foreign body is thrust under the nail. The pulp in the interior of a tooth, and the frog of a horse’s foot, are also instances in which an exquisitely sensitive structure is placed beneath a hard or horny substance. The object, in each case, is the same, viz. to give the power of taking cognizance of impressions which are made upon the surface.

Hairs.

Hairs may also be regarded as modifications of the cuticle, because, like the nails, they are continuous with the cuticle, and are formed from the rete mucosum. Each hair (figs. 79 and 83) is received into a depression of the cutis, which is called a “follicle,” and which is lined, as far as the bottom, by cuticle (a), and rete mucosum (b). At the bottom of the follicle (d) the cuticle is absent, and the hair rests, directly, upon the rete; and, at this part, the rete, instead of being converted into cuticle, as it is at the sides of the follicle, becomes transformed into hair, in the following way.

The cells of which the rete is composed swell out as they ascend, and so form the soft “bulb” of the hair. The outermost cells are gradually flattened, and assume an imbricated arrangement, overlapping one another like the tiles upon a roof (fig. 79, e, and fig. 80); and those in the interior are elongated, so as to be converted into more or less distinct fibres. The cells nearest the middle, or axis, of the hair remain moister and softer than those nearer the exterior, and form what is sometimes called the “marrow” of the hair (figs. 81 and 82).

The colour of the hair is given by the presence of minute grains of colouring matter, like those in the cuticle of the Negro. They are formed in the cells at the root of the hair, and pass up with them into its structure. The quantity of colouring matter is usually slight in infancy and childhood, and increases during adolescence. Hence the hair becomes darker as we grow up. It is more or less deficient in the grey hair of old age; and in the instance of Marie Antoinette, and others whose hair is said to have turned grey in a few hours, the colouring matter is supposed to have been destroyed by some fluid, formed from the blood, and passing, through the pulp, into the hair.

The hairs serve to protect the skin; and, as a general rule, they are most abundant upon the parts which are most exposed, and which, therefore, stand most in need of such protection. They are scattered over the back of the hand. On the palmar surface they are not required, and they would have interfered with the sense of touch; and we do not, accordingly, find them there, nor upon the sole of the foot, nor upon the edges of the lips. In certain parts of some animals, however, they serve as valuable adjuncts to the tactile organs by extending the range within which the contact of surrounding substances is felt. Thus the whiskers of the cat are set upon papillæ so sensitive that the slightest touch upon any part of the hair is felt; and the animal is thereby assisted in threading its way in the dark. This provision, added to the mode in which their feet are muffled with soft hair and their claws are retracted, enables the members of the feline tribe to steal with almost absolute stillness upon their prey.

Oil-glands.

There are also in the skin a number of little Glands. One set of these are called “oil-glands;” for their office is to furnish an oily, or waxy, substance, which serves to keep the skin soft and pliable, and defends it against too much moisture, or too great dryness of the atmosphere. They are usually, as shown in the accompanying sketch, (fig. 83, g, g) connected with the hairs, lying beside them; and their ducts—the little tubes that carry off the oily matter formed in them—open either into the hair follicles, or penetrate the cuticle at some other part. They are not found on the palms of the hand or the soles of the feet, because those parts are, in great measure, sheltered from atmospheric influences, and are well moistened with perspiration. When the dry easterly winds prevail one is disposed to wish that these glands were more numerous on the back of the hands; for a more liberal supply of their secretion would, probably, prevent the disagreeable chapping to which we are subject at those times. As a substitute we resort to some unctuous matter, such as glycerine, which if frequently applied in small quantities performs, to some extent, the part of the natural secretion in keeping the cuticle soft and supple, and so preventing its cracking.

The secretion of these glands has an odour, the purpose of which, in man, is not very obvious. It is faintest in the highest and most civilized nations. In none is it very agreeable; and persons are fain to conceal it by substituting some other odour, as that of lavender or eau-de-cologne. Unfortunately the choice is not always so refined; and one is, sometimes, disposed to think that the natural odour must be very bad, if the substitute be preferable. The odour varies at different parts of the body; it varies also in different persons, sufficiently to enable the acute nose of the dog to track one particular man among a thousand.

Sweat-glands.

To revert to the figure (70) at page 165, the little masses at g, g, are grains of fat lying in the meshes of the deeper strata of the skin, or in the structure just below it. And the little balls of twisted tube (f, f) are Glands that secrete the Perspiration; for, the perspiration does not ooze up from the whole surface of the skin, but has a regular system of factories for its formation. A fine tube (h) is seen passing from each of these “sweat-glands,” as they are called. It curls in a spiral manner, like a cork-screw, where it traverses the cuticle to open at the surface. On the palmar aspect of the hand most of these tubes or ducts open along the tops of the fine ridges which are there seen; and with a magnifying glass of moderate power you can distinguish their orifices on the flattened tops of the ridges on your own fingers. These are the “pores of the skin,” respecting which we hear so much, and through which the Roman Bath brings such streams from the subjacent glands.

The sweat-glands are scattered all over the body, but are especially numerous in the palm and in the sole; and the moisture issuing from them tends to keep the skin of these parts soft and moist, and so fitted for the reception of tactile impressions. The quantity of fluid furnished by them varies a good deal in different persons, and under different circumstances. In some persons it is habitually slight; and the hands feel dry and harsh. Or, what is equally disagreeable, it is superabundant; and the hands are habitually damp, perhaps, cold and clammy, staining the gloves and soiling everything they touch. In fever the perspiration is defective; and the dryness and heat of the palm are often the first symptoms of an accession of fever that attract the patient’s notice.

We all know that perspiration is usually increased by exercise, or by the application of warmth to the surface, as by the hot air in the sudatorium of the Roman Bath; and then, by its evaporation, it cools and relieves the body, and contributes to our comfort. We know, too, that it is liable to be increased by any thing that produces a depressing effect, and that it then induces an uncomfortable sensation, chilling the surface too much, and making it cold and clammy. Most of you have experienced the discomfort of the cold sweat caused by fright; and some of you may have felt the cold, clammy hand of one who was suffering under the shock of a severe accident or the prostration caused by the sudden onset of a dangerous malady. Why perspiration should occur under these very different conditions, producing, at one time, so much relief, and, at another, so much additional discomfort, it is not easy to say.

The sense of Feeling and of Touch in the Hand.

I have mentioned three parts of the body as remarkable for the acuteness of the sense of touch, namely, the Tongue, the Lips, and the Hands. Now in each of these the skin is richly supplied with nerves and blood-vessels; and it is also thick and lies upon a soft cushiony substance, so as to be yielding and to admit of being applied accurately over any surface with which it is placed in contact, and of again resuming its shape when the pressure is removed. For instance, the tongue is so soft and yielding that, when it is applied to a tooth, it dips down between the inequalities and coves accurate information of the condition of the whole surface. The same is the case with the edges of the lips, though not in so marked a degree as in the tongue; and each of these parts is indebted for its great sensitiveness very much to the delicate soft supple nature of its structure. The palmar surface of the hand too, though, like the skin of the sole, it is strong and tough, so as to offer considerable resistance to injury and to prove no dainty morsel even to dogs, as we surmise from the narrative of the death of Jezebel, is yet very soft and yielding. It is also underlaid by a stratum of fat interwoven with strong fibres of tissue, just in the same manner as the skin of the sole of the foot (fig. 46, p. 99).

An accumulation of this fat and fibrous tissue under the skin forms the “Pulps” at the ends of the fingers. The slightly conical form and exquisite softness of the Pulps adapts them well for the examination of the surfaces of bodies; and the sense of touch is more acute in them than in other parts of the hand.

In connection with them it is interesting to observe that the last bone of each finger and of the thumb swells out, at the end, into a nodulated lump, which serves the purpose both of supporting the pulp and of giving breadth to the nail. It also, like the corresponding part of the toe (page 99), affords a basis of attachment for the fibres that run, from the bone, through the pad of fat, to the skin, and give firmness and consistence to the part. The bulbous enlargement at the ends of the phalanges of the fingers and toes is peculiar, or almost peculiar, to man. In most Animals these bones taper to a point; in many they are also curved. Hence the nails are, in them, comparatively unsupported, and they become bent in at the sides and curved in their length, that is to say, they are formed into claws. This is the case, to a considerable extent, in the Monkey. The terminal phalanges of the monkey’s digits are more tapering than in man; the nails are more claw-like; and the pulps are less well-formed. This constitutes a not unimportant feature of difference between the hand of that animal and the human hand, in addition to those I have already mentioned.

You have experienced the sensitiveness to cold of the pulps of the fingers and toes; and have, probably, remarked that it is more difficult to keep them warm than any part of the body. I may add that, notwithstanding the liberal allowance of the means of supporting life (that is, blood and nervous influence) which they enjoy, they are very liable to mortify from frost-bite and other causes. I have repeatedly known that to happen when all the rest of the hand has escaped. This must be attributed, perhaps entirely, to their exposed position as terminal parts; and they share their susceptibility to cold with other parts similarly circumstanced, such as the nose, the elbows, the knees and the buttocks.

It is necessary to make a distinction between the Sense of Touch and common Feeling or sensitiveness to pain; for they are not quite the same. They are, it is true, very nearly alike, so nearly that we may consider them to be modifications of one another; and it is probable that the same nerves minister to both. Still there is a difference. The sense of touch is the sense of contact with external bodies, and enables us to take cognisance of their presence and inform ourselves of their shape, consistence, smoothness or roughness, &c.; whereas common sensation, or the sense of feeling, has an internal relation. It imparts to us information respecting the condition of our own bodies or any part of them. By the sense of touch in the tongue, for instance, we judge of the size and hardness of the morsel in the mouth; and by common sensation we learn that the organ is being bruised or scratched by it. Sensation of pain commonly destroys the sense of touch. Put your finger into a vice, and you may feel both sides of it. Screw it up, and you have nothing but the sensation of pain. If you were to awake in this state you would not, from the mere sensation, know that you were touching anything.

As a general rule there is a relation between the degree in which sensation and the sense of touch are manifested in different parts of the body. For instance, I have just been remarking on the acuteness of the sense of touch in the Tongue; and we know that this part is very sensitive to pain. The pain caused by a bite of the tongue is horrible; and so effectually does it serve the good end of warning the tongue to keep within its proper bounds, that that organ very rarely suffers from the pressure of the teeth.

But, forasmuch as sensitiveness to pain serves a different purpose from the sense of touch, namely, as in the instance of the tongue just mentioned, it renders parts alive to injurious impressions, and gives them warning to escape or protect themselves; so it is, as we might expect, most manifested in those surfaces where a slight amount of injury would prove most detrimental.

Thus, the membrane (the conjunctiva) which lines the eyelids and covers the front of the eyeball is exquisitely sensitive to pain. We are reminded of this when anything touches the eye, or when a fly has lodged itself under the eyelid. And, when an operator wishes to ascertain whether his patient is sufficiently under the influence of chloroform he separates the eyelids and puts his finger gently upon the eye, knowing that if no indication be given, by flinching, that the impression made here is felt, it is probable that the patient will not be conscious of the more severe impression to be made by the knife elsewhere. Yet, this membrane is by no means pre-eminently endued with the sense of touch. Indeed, the very acuteness of its sensitiveness to pain quite unfits it for distinguishing the quality of the impressions made upon it. We know very quickly that something is in contact with the eye, but can form no idea what kind of substance it is, whether it be hard or soft, rough or smooth.

In the hand, on the contrary, the sensitiveness to pain, though considerable, is not proportionate to the acuteness of the sense of touch. The sting of the rod on the palm, if my recollection serves me right, is not so sharply felt as it is upon that other region which shares with the hand the privilege of receiving the wrathful attentions of the master; and, yet, that other region is by no means distinguished for acuteness in the sense of touch.

The mode in which sensitiveness to touch and to pain are adjusted in the hand and in the eye in relation to the functions of these two organs is one of the admirable features of their construction. Suppose the disposition to have been reversed—suppose the hand to have been as tender as the eye—of what use would it have been? The contact of a particle of dust would have caused agony; or, had the eye been no more sentient than the hand, it would soon have been destroyed by the chafing of foreign bodies upon its delicate surface.

How important is the sense of Feeling! more important than any of the other senses; more so than all the others taken together. It is almost universal in the animal kingdom. Indeed, we can scarcely conceive animal existence without it, and are slow to admit that to be an animal which shows no sign of it. Several of the lower animals seem to be destitute of any of the other senses. The Polyps, for instance, have no sight, hearing, taste, or smell, and are dependent, therefore, entirely, upon feeling for their communication with the external world; and the range of this sense is extended in them by means of their “tentacles” or “feelers” which wave about in the water, and, when they come in contact with foreign bodies, close upon them and draw them towards the oral opening. Thus, the tentacle of the polyp is a sort of rudimentary hand, and, by the aid of feeling, fulfils one important function of the hand, viz. that of the supplying the mouth with food. The sprawling movements of an infant’s hands and the tendency which they have to close upon anything—dress, blanket, or whatever it be—and draw it to the mouth remind one forcibly of the feelers of a polyp.

In most of the lower animals, however, the sense of feeling, though present, serving for protection and giving notice of injury, is not very acute. It is not much employed by them for the purpose of obtaining information respecting external objects; and they can scarcely be said to enjoy that modification of it which we call the sense of touch in any high degree. Indeed, the skins of animals have, commonly, such a covering of thick, horny cuticle, scales, feathers, or hair, as is incompatible with a fine discriminating sense of touch.

In many of them, however, some other sense is highly developed. The Vulture is guided by the smell of carrion for miles and miles; and the dog will, by the same sense, track game where man cannot detect the trace of an odour. Some birds can distinguish objects which are quite out of the range of our sight. The Eagle, for instance, soars aloft, till it dwindles to a mere speck or is lost to our view, and, then, from that great height, will pounce, with unerring certainty, on an unhappy grouse upon the ground. The sense of hearing is a great means of protection to animals, and necessitates extreme stillness and caution on the part of their pursuers. The Deer, when feeding, directs his eyes upon the ground, and depends for safety, chiefly, upon his hearing, which is so acute that the huntsman is obliged to approach with all possible wariness.

In each of these instances, it may be observed, the acuteness of the particular sense is manifested chiefly in the power it gives to the animal of distinguishing objects at a distance. Whereas, in the ability to use the several senses for the nice discernment of the qualities of substances and to derive enjoyment from them, man stands quite unrivalled. He alone appreciates the perfume of a bouquet, or takes cognisance of the various shades of colour and of the notes of music; and the sense of touch, which is of especial service in aiding us to an accurate knowledge of bodies, is much more highly developed in man than in other animals.

Fine as the sense of touch usually is in the human hand, it becomes far more so when an unusual demand is made upon it in consequence of a deficiency, or absence, of other senses. The rapidity with which blind persons can read with their fingers is truly astonishing. Some are said to be able to distinguish colours by the feel. (It should rather be said that they are capable of recognising the nice differences in certain substances by which colours are caused; for one can scarcely conceive it possible to distinguish by feeling the colours in a ray of light separated by a prism.) I am acquainted with a lady who has been, not only blind, but deaf and dumb from infancy. The sense of touch is, therefore, almost her only avenue for impressions from without; and it is surprising how much information is conveyed through it, and how quickly. It enables her to hold converse with her relatives, by the language of the fingers, almost as freely and as briskly as others do with the tongue. A few touches are sufficient to transmit a series of thoughts. After one shake of the hand her friends told me that she would recognise me again; and, true enough, although several days elapsed before I again saw her, she made the sign for my name as soon as she touched my hand. At our next meeting I presented my left hand, but was, again, immediately recognised.

Persons who have had much experience in the instruction of the deaf and dumb find that the hand, by means of writing and “dactylogy”, or the language of finger-signs, is abundantly sufficient for all the intercourse to which a deaf-mute is equal; and they are, therefore, disposed to discourage the teaching of articulation. Dr Kitto, in his little book “On the Lost Senses,” which acquires so much interest from the fact of his being himself deaf and dumb in consequence of an accident, relates that, after he had, with great difficulty, reacquired considerable facility of speech, he found it stood him in little stead. So efficient a means of intercourse had the hand become that, he tells us, he had not occasion for the use of his tongue ten times in a year.

Not only may the hand thus serve, to some extent, as a substitute for some of the other senses; it is also a most important auxiliary to them. Particularly is it so to the sense of sight, by proving, or correcting, the impressions which we receive through the eye. Without its aid we should often fail to distinguish between a real object and a picture or a reflection in a mirror, and should have difficulty in judging of size, shape, distance, &c.

Relation of the Hand to the Eye and the Mouth.

You cannot have watched a game of cricket without being struck by the manner in which the hand acts in harmony with the eye. With what almost lightning-like rapidity it is in the exact place to catch the ball; and with what precision the practised cricketer can throw the ball to a great distance. In this, however, he is surpassed by the wonderful skill with which the Indian throws the lasso. Again, it is enough for the sportsman merely to get sight of the bird; he is scarcely conscious of the process by which the hand directs the gun and pulls the trigger at the exact moment. Still more remarkable is the successful aim when taken, as it occasionally is, without bringing the gun to the shoulder.

In estimating the importance of the hand, you must not forget that the mouth is quite dependent upon it for supplies. In most other animals the jaws are prolonged, forwards, from the cranium, and the head is placed in such a position that the mouth becomes an organ of prehension, and is enabled to provide for itself. But, in man, the head is carried so high above the ground, and the jaws are so shortened and compressed beneath the forehead, that the mouth is of little use in obtaining food. Its abilities and duties are restricted to receiving, masticating, and swallowing; and, if it had to rely upon its own efforts for supplies of food, it would, indeed, be in a poor case. When we look at one of the Sphinxes from Egypt, or at one of the stately Bulls from Nineveh, in which wisdom and power are represented by joining a human head to the trunk and limbs of an animal, the question suggests itself, “How is that mouth to be fed?” In the Centaur and Mermaid this difficulty is overcome by adding the hands, as well as the human head, to the trunk and locomotory organs of the horse in the one instance, and the fish in the other; so that monstrosity does not preclude the means of sustentation. Sufficient incongruities, however, still remain to justify the exclamation

“Spectatum admissi risum teneatis amici?”

In the Elephant the mouth is circumstanced, somewhat, as in man; and the office of feeder is performed by the elongated snout or proboscis. This organ, with its finger-like extremity, is so sensitive and mobile as to be able to pick up small bodies—pins or needles—from the ground, and so strong as to pull down large branches of trees, and gather the fruit from them. It is interesting, in connection with the relation of the hand to the will and the intellectual endowments, to remark that this proboscidean substitute, which fulfils so many of the purposes of the hand, is furnished to the “half reasoning” elephant. The natural sagacity and teachableness of this creature, of which such interesting evidence is given in Sir Emerson Tennent’s book on Ceylon, seem to render it quite worthy of the privilege of having an especial organ provided to minister to its will.

Cheiromancy.

The Beauty of the hand does not come in for quite so great a share of admiration as that of the foot. Perhaps, because we are less often gratified with the view of the latter. Perhaps, because we are conscious that the foot is even more decidedly characteristic of the human form than is the hand; inasmuch as the hand of the monkey approaches more nearly to the human hand than does the foot of any animal to the human foot. Still, we are by no means insensible to the charms of a pretty hand; and we prefer that the glove which envelopes it should be of a material as thin and pliable as kid, so that it may adapt itself accurately to the part, and not conceal its form. A small and delicate hand is thought to be one of the best signs of high-breeding. Thus, Byron, who was no bad judge of such matters, writes

“Even to the delicacy of her hand
There was resemblance such as true blood bears,”

and again,

“Though on more thorough-bred or fairer fingers
No lips ere left their transitory trace.”

The Lines upon the palm, or creases formed in closing the hand, differ a little in different persons. In former times, when men were addicted to the arts of divination, and thought more about the connection between the physical world and the world of spirits, and strove, by a close observation of the former, to penetrate the mysteries of the latter, much attention was paid to these lines. They were named with the names of the Planets and the signs of the Zodiac; and a science grew up akin to Astrology and Physiognomy. Cheiromancy was the name given to it; and numerous and voluminous treatises were written upon it. We are told that Homer was the author of a complete essay upon the lines of the hand. That something of the kind was practised among the Romans we learn from a passage in Juvenal, translated, somewhat freely, by Dryden, as follows:

“The middle sort, who have not much to spare,
To cheiromancer’s cheaper art repair,
Who claps the pretty palm to make the lines more fair.”

You will estimate the value of the science of Cheiromancy when you hear that equal furrows upon the lower joint of the thumb argue riches and possessions; but a line surrounding the middle joint portends hanging. The nails, also, came in for their share of attention: and we are informed that, when short, they imply goodness; when long and narrow, steadiness but dulness; when curved, rapacity. Black spots upon them are unlucky; white are fortunate. Even at the present day Gipsies practise the art when they can find sufficient credulity to encourage them.

Whether any fancy of the like kind gave origin to the notion still prevalent that a wound or injury between the thumb and the fore-finger is peculiarly likely to be followed by Lock-jaw, or whether the notion was grounded on some notable instance in which that fearful malady did actually supervene upon a wound in the situation mentioned, I cannot tell. You may, however, rest assured, that it is quite a fallacy. Lock-jaw may result from a wound in any part of the body, or it may occur without a wound; it is very capricious in its attack; the surgeon does not know when to look for it; it often shows itself when he least expects it; but it is not more likely to follow a wound between the thumb and the fore-finger than a wound elsewhere. I think it well to mention this, because I have often known persons greatly alarmed when they have accidentally cut themselves in the dreaded spot.

Cause of the preferential use of the Right Hand.

Why is man usually RIGHT-HANDED? Many attempts have been made to answer this question; but it has never been done quite satisfactorily; and I do not think that a clear and distinct explanation of the fact can be given.

There is no anatomical reason for it with which we are acquainted. The only peculiarity that we can discern is a slight difference in the disposition, within the chest, between the blood-vessels which supply the right and the left arms. This, however, is quite insufficient to account for the disparity between the two limbs. Moreover, the same disposition is observed in left-handed persons, and in some of the lower animals; and in none of the latter is there that difference between the two limbs which is so general among men.

Is the superiority of the right hand real and natural, that is, congenital? or is it merely acquired? I incline much to the latter view; because all men are not right-handed; some are left-handed; some are ambidextrous; and in all persons, I believe, the left hand may be trained to as great expertness and strength as the right‍9. It is so in those who have been deprived of their right hand in early life; and most persons can do certain things with the left hand better than with the right.

Nevertheless, though I think the superiority of the right hand is acquired and is a result of its more frequent use, the tendency to use it, in preference to the left, is so universal that it would seem to be natural. I am driven, therefore, to the rather nice distinction, that, though the superiority is acquired, the tendency to acquire the superiority is natural.

It may be argued that the tendency must be based upon something physical, and that, therefore, a tendency to superiority implies an actual superiority. This may be so; but I do not think that we are quite in a position to assert that it is so. We perceive that there is a tendency to the preferential use of the right hand; but we do not know upon what that tendency depends, and have, therefore no right to assert that the cause of it lies in the construction of the limb or of the parts which supply the limb with blood and nervous influence, or, indeed, upon any strictly physical cause whatever.

It may be a tendency like that of certain animals to make their holes and nests in particular places and in particular ways, to watch for their prey at particular spots, to migrate in certain directions at particular periods, and to group themselves in a particular order during their travels. Such tendencies, or “Instincts” as they are often called, may possibly be the result of a peculiar conformation of the several animals; but it is, at present, by no means certain that they are so.

I have said that man is the only animal in whom a preference in the use of the limb or limbs of one side is shown. This is a consequence of the fact that he is the only animal who has occasion to use the limbs of the two sides separately, or who is in the habit of doing so. Even in the rudest state of society this habit is engendered in him from a very early period, as in carrying a stick, throwing a spear, and in a variety of ways. The habit increases as he becomes more civilized, owing to the greater number of offices which the hands are called upon to perform; and the necessity for using the hands separately would, of itself, lead each individual to the employment of one more frequently than the other; but that that one should so universally be the right hand, seems to be accounted for only by reference to some natural tendency. The imitative propensity in man and the convenience of uniformity of modes of action are scarcely sufficient to account for it.

I will not detain you by dwelling upon the effect which the superiority of the right hand has in giving a slight superiority to the right leg and the right eye, and will content myself with mentioning a single beneficial result of the preferential use of one hand, viz. that by it, we acquire a greater degree of skilfulness and dexterity than we should do if both hands were equally employed. The exclusive use, for instance, of the right hand in writing, cutting, &c. gives it a greater expertness than either hand would have had if both of them had been accustomed to perform these offices. Hence, we usually find that persons who are left-handed are rather clumsy-fingered, because, although, in them, the left hand is used for many purposes which are commonly assigned to the right, yet the conventionalities of life interfere a good deal. The pen and the knife, for instance, are still wielded by the right hand. Accordingly such persons are neither truly right-handed nor truly left-handed; and they do not commonly acquire so great skill in the use of either hand as do those whose natural tendency is more in harmony with custom.

The great martyr of our Church, when at the stake, is said to have held out his right hand into the flames and to have been heard exclaiming, till utterance was stifled, “This unworthy hand.” This unworthy hand! Of whom or of what was that hand unworthy? Was it unworthy of Him who made it? Was it unworthy of him who bore it? Was it unworthy of the purposes for which it was made? Was it not, on the contrary, a too worthy hand? a hand worthy of a better usage than to be made, first, to sign a recantation of faith and, then, to be burned for having done so? a hand worthy of a better man? No one would have admitted this more readily than Cranmer. We may be sure that he would never have thought of proclaiming a hand or any of his members to be really unworthy of him. Rather would he have willingly confessed that he had fallen far short of the standard of excellence which the body presents; and in that excellence, we doubt not, he recognised an evidence of Divine workmanship. His meaning, therefore, has not been misunderstood. Nevertheless disparaging remarks respecting the body, and the use of the word “carnal” in the sense in which it is usually employed, have some tendency to excuse a shrinking from moral responsibilities on the ground of the weakness of the flesh. Let us remember that much of that weakness is of our own engendering, that a moral obliquity is the source of many of those physical infirmities which, we flatter ourselves, may cover our delinquencies, and which a sympathising humanity is wont, perhaps too often, to throw as a shield over offenders against the laws. In man, and in man alone of created beings, the physical and the moral grow up together and react upon one another; and the charge of a body thus capable of influencing and being influenced demands all our energies to prove ourselves worthy of it.