March 1902 (13:5)

Here is the report of the rather Whitmanesque demise of beloved Dr. Bucke, on his way to “enjoy the beauties of the moonlit winter night.”  It is followed by a short poem in Bucke’s memory by Gustav[e] P[ercival]. Wiksell.  As I report in Intimate with Walt (pp. xxix-xxx), Ed Folsom has uncovered and written about correspondence between Traubel and Wiksell in the Library of Congress that suggests the two men were involved in a passionate and physical relationship circa 1899-1905.  Wiksell eventually became a dentist practicing in Boston.

Richard Maurice Bucke

            Dr. R. M. Bucke, Medical Superintendent of the London Insane Asylum, died suddenly about 11.20 o’clock Wednesday night. Death was due to an accident—a fall upon the verandah.  Deceased had driven home from the city with Mrs. Bucke a few minutes previously, and went out on the verandah of his house in the Asylum grounds to enjoy the beauties of the moonlit winter night.  He had not been out of doors more than two minutes when another member of the household came out to loin him, and was startled to find the doctor lying on his back.  Assistance was promptly brought, and “he was carried into the house.  Dr. Bucke never spoke. He gave no sign of life from the moment he was discovered.  He had slipped on the icy walk and, tailing backward, struck on his head and received a fatal blow!  Dr. H. A. McCallum, who was summoned, found death to have been due to concussion of the brain and hemorrhage. The sudden death of Dr. Bucke was an especially severe shock to his family.  He had enjoyed vigorous health, and was feeling- as well as at any period in his life.  He was in his accustomed buoyant spirits.  His sudden taking off was in consequence a doubly severe blow. 

—Free Press, London, Ontario, February 21.   

      At first in silence only could we hear your requiem.
      At first we pitied those near and beloved; pitied ourselves.
      But now the ice of death is clearing from the rivers of
our souls and the ship of joy sails out into the immortal
seas bearing our songs of love and congratulation to you,
the great soul gone before.
      Your work was well rounded and your commanding
voice had reassured many who doubted their own
immortality—and will continue to do so.
      No greater office is given to man than to arouse in
others spiritual latencies.
      So long! we meet soon again. We shall expect your
face upon the wharf.

Gustav P. Wiksell.