Part 9

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 _out_er side of the ring-finger. The other nerve (B) lies on the _in_ner 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-bone[8].” 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.

[8] It has been suggested, probably by _Punch_, that it is called the “_funny-bone_” because it lies near the “_humerus_.”

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.

[Illustration: Fig. 70. Skin.]

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.

[Illustration: Fig. 72.]

[Illustration: Fig. 71. Skin.]

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.”

[Illustration: Fig. 73. Corn.]

[Illustration: Fig. 74. Wart.]

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.