Chapter: THE INEBRIATES' HOME SPRINGFIELD LODGE, DENMARK HILL.

This house, which has a fine garden attached, was a gentleman's
residence purchased by the Salvation Army, to serve as an Inebriates'
Home for the better class of patients. With the exception of a few who
give their services in connexion with the work of the place as a
return for their treatment, it is really a Home for gentlefolk. When I
visited it, some of the inmates, of whom there are usually from
twenty-five to thirty, were talented ladies who could speak several
languages, or paint, or play very well. All these came here to be
cured of the drink or drug habit. The fee for the course ranges from a
guinea to 10_s_. per week, according to the ability of the patient to
pay, but some who lack this ability pay nothing at all.

The lady in charge remarked drily on this point, that many people
seemed to think that as the place belonged to the Salvation Army it
did not matter if they paid or not. As is the practice at Hillsborough
House, a vegetarian diet is insisted upon as a condition of
the patient receiving treatment at the Home. Often this is a cause of
much remonstrance, as the inmates, who are mostly persons in middle or
advanced life, think that it will kill them. The actual results,
however, are found to be most satisfactory, as the percentage of
successes is found to be 50 per cent, after a year in the Home and
three years' subsequent supervision. I was told that a while ago, Sir
Thomas Barlow, the well-known physician, challenged this statement. He
was asked to see for himself, he examined a number of the patients,
inspected the books and records, and finally satisfied himself that it
was absolutely correct.

The Army attaches much importance to what may be called the after-care
of the cases, for the lack of which so many people who pass through
Homes and then return to ordinary life, break down, and become,
perhaps, worse than they were before. The seven devils of Scripture
are always ready to re-occupy the swept and garnished soul, especially
if they be the devils of drink.

Moreover, the experience of the Army is that relatives and friends are
extraordinarily thoughtless in this matter. Often enough they will, as
it were, thrust spirituous liquors down the throat of the
newly-reformed drunkard, or at the least will pass them before their
eyes and drink them in their presence as usual, with results that may
be imagined. One taste and in four cases out of six the thing is done.
The old longings awake again and must be satisfied.

For these reasons the highly-skilled Officers of the Salvation Army
hold that reclaimed inebriates should be safeguarded, watched, and, so
far as the circumstances may allow, kept under the influences that
have brought about their partial recovery. They say that they owe much
of their remarkable success in those cases to a strict observance of
such preventive methods for a period of three years. After that time
patients must stand upon their own feet. These remarks apply also to
the victims of the drug habit, who are even more difficult to deal
with than common drunkards.

At this Home I had a conversation with a fine young woman, an
ex-hospital nurse, who gave me a very interesting account of her
experiences of laudanum drinking. She said that in an illness she had
gone through while she was a nurse a doctor dosed her with laudanum to
deaden her pain and induce sleep. The upshot was that she could not
sleep without the help of laudanum or other opiates, and thus the
fatal habit was formed. She described the effects of the drug upon
her, which appeared to be temporary exhilaration and freedom from all
care, coupled with sensations of great vigour. She spoke also of
delightful visions; but when I asked her to describe the visions, she
went back upon that statement, perhaps because their nature was such
as she did not care to set out. She added, however, that the sleep
which followed was haunted by terrible dreams.

Another effect of the habit, according to this lady, is forgetfulness,
which showed itself in all kinds of mistakes, and in the loss of power
of accurate expression, which caused her to say things she did not
mean and could not remember when she had said them. She told me that
the process of weaning herself from the drug was extremely painful and
difficult; but that she now slept well and desired it no more.

To be plain, I was not satisfied with the truth of this last
statement, for there was a strange look in her eyes which suggested
that she still desired it very much; also she seemed to me to
prevaricate upon certain points. Further, those in charge of her
allowed that this diagnosis was probably correct, especially as she is
now in the Home for the second time, although her first visit there
was a very short one. Still they thought that she would be cured in
the end. Let us hope that they were right.

The Army has also another Home in this neighbourhood, run on similar
lines, for the treatment of middle-class and poor people.

 Rivers sits in a corner, watching as Yealland brings Callan--a soldier who has lived through almost every major battle in the war--in to begin his treatment. Except for Rivers, the two men are entirely alone in the room. Yealland closes all the blinds so it is completely dark, aside from the glow of the battery and the reflection off Yealland's white coat and glasses. Callan is brought in and strapped down to the chair. Rivers senses that the patient is frightened. Yealland attaches electrodes to the back of Callan's throat and continues to shock him repeatedly until he can make a sound. He shocks Callan for over three hours. When it seems like the patient is falling asleep, Yealland makes him get up and walk around the room. Callan tries to escape, but he cannot get out the door. It is locked from the inside, and only Yealland has the key. Callan considers attacking Yealland, but decides against it, and he submits to more electric shocks. To Rivers, the shocks seem extremely strong. Yealland removes the electrodes from the back of Callan's throat and applies them to the sides of his neck. Callan seems to honestly be trying to speak, but only the sound "ah" comes out. Eventually, after many more shocks, Callan is stammering words. Yealland makes him feel completely powerless, repeating to him: "You must speak, but I shall not listen to anything you have to say. Finally, Callan is able to speak in full sentences. Yealland lets Callan up, and Callan smiles at him. Yealland does not like Callan smile, so he makes him sit down again, applies electrodes to his lips, and shocks him. When he gets up again, Callan no longer smiles. At the very end of the treatment, Callan must thank Yealland for curing him

