The play, “The Return of Peter Grimm,” is an expression in dramatic form of my ideas on a subject which I have pondered over since boyhood:  “Can the dead come back?” Peter Grimm did come back.  At the same time, I inserted a note in my program to say that I advanced no positive opinion; that the treatment of the play allowed the audience to believe that it had actually seen Peter, or that he had not been seen but existed merely in the minds of the characters on the stage.  Spiritualists from all over the country flocked to see “The Return of Peter Grimm,” and I have heard that it gave comfort to many.  It was a difficult theme, and more than once I was tempted to give it up.  But since it has given relief to those who have loved and lost, it was not written in vain.  Victorian Sardou dealt with the same subject, but he did not show the return of the dead; instead, he delivered a spirit message by means of knocking on a table.  His play was not a success, and I was warned by my friends to let the subject alone; but it is a subject that I never can or never have let alone; yet I never went to a medium in my life—­could not bring myself to do it.  My dead must come to me, and have come to me—­or so I believe.

The return of the dead is the eternal riddle of the living.  Although mediums have been exposed since the beginning of time, and so-called “spiritualism” has fallen into disrepute over and over again, it emerges triumphantly in spite of charlatans, and once more becomes the theme of the hour.

The subject first interested me when, as a boy, I read a story in which the dead “foretold dangers to loved ones.”  My mother had “premonitions” which were very remarkable, and I was convinced, at the time, that the dead gave these messages to her.  She personally could not account for them.  I probably owe my life to one of my mother’s premonitions.  I was going on a steamboat excursion with my school friends, when my mother had a strong presentiment of danger, and begged me not to go.  She gave in to my entreaties, however, much against her will.  Just as the boat was about to leave the pier, a vision of her pale face and tear-filled eyes came to me.  I heard her voice repeating, “I wish you would not go, Davy.”  The influence was so strong that I dashed down the gang-plank as it was being pulled in.  The boat met with disaster, and many of the children were killed or wounded.  These premonitions have also come to me, but I do not believe as I did when a boy that they are warnings from the dead, although I cannot explain them, and they are never wrong; the message is always very clear.

My mother convinced me that the dead come back by coming to me at the time of her death—­or so I believe.  One night, after a long, hard rehearsal, I went to bed, worn out, and fell into a deep sleep.  I was awakened by my mother, who stood in my bedroom and called to me.  She seemed to be clothed in white.  She repeated my name over and over—­the name she called me in my boyhood:  “Davy!  Davy!” She told me not to grieve—­that she was dying; that she had to see me.  I distinctly saw her and heard her speak.