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.

 After lunch, Dr. Yealland prepares to treat Callan, seemingly enthusiastic about the task. Rivers follows Yealland into a room that is pitch-black except for a small light illuminating a battery powering the electroshock machine. In the center of the room sits what looks like a dentist's chair with restraining straps. Dr. Rivers finds an inconspicuous seat against a far wall. As he is strapped into the chair, Callan is filled with fear and apprehension. Dr. Yealland informs Callan that the door is locked and he will only be allowed to leave once he speaks as well as he did before becoming mute. Dr. Yealland pushes an electrode into the back of Callan's throat, causing the patient to spasm from the force of the shock. He keeps shocking Callan repeatedly for over an hour, until the soldier produces a small "ah". Dr. Yealland is pleased, lording over his patient and insisting that he has complete control over him. Yealland then forces Callan to march around the battery, even though the man is exhausted and near collapse. Afterwards, Callan resignedly motions for the doctor to continue his treatment. Dr. Yealland informs Callan that he has no control over when the treatment will begin again: the timing and frequency of the shocks are subject only to the doctor's whim. Dr. Rivers is horrified watching Callan struggle to speak, remembering his own difficulties with stammering. After another round of shocks, Callan is able to produce a "bah" sound before he collapses in tears. He asks for water and then attempts to break out of the room, pounding on the locked door. Dr. Yealland condescendingly informs Callan that he must live up to his status as a war hero before turning up the current to resume the treatment. Eventually, after several hours, Callan begins tentatively forming words, then phrases, and eventually, fully-formed sentences. At the end of the session, Callan smiles in a way that irritates Dr. Yealland; the doctor forces him back into the chair and shocks his mouth to take the smile off his face. Callan, completely broken, thanks Dr. Yealland as he leaves

