The Icelandic Canadian - 01.06.1967, Síða 59

THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
57
An Address to the Icelandic Canadian Club
of Winnipeg
delivered by ROY ST. GEORGE STUBBS, on February 28, 1967
Some months ago, when the final
sun had set for your great poet, Gut-
tormur J. Guttormsson, I said to an
Icelandic friend that I was going to
attempt a brief account of his life and
work. He suggested to me that I would
be presumptuous to even think of
undertaking such a task, that as one
who could not speak his language, I
would be reaching far above my
height. You mistake my purpose, I
told him, I shall not be speaking to
Icelanders. I shall be speaking to Eng-
lish Canadians, and I shall tell them
that they have had a great man, a
great poet, living in their midst of
whom they have not been aware. I
may be able to strike a note which no
Icelanders, with a due regard for the
proprieties, could strike.
I come before you tonight in this
same spirit. The Icelanders are a
modest race. This is not to say that
they suffer from any false sense of
modesty. They have a good conceit of
themselves. As members of a minority
race, they have always realized that no
presumptions will toe made in their
favor, that they must prove themselves,
and prove themselves they have done
—most abundantly. As a non-Icelander,
I can speak of Icelanders without the
restraint under which any modest Ice-
lander must labour. But there are no
considerations which would induce me
to stretch the truth. I shall tell no lies.
My knowledge does not qualify me
to speak to a group of Icelandic-Can-
adians. I must seek my warmth else-
where and I find it in my admiration
for a small race of people with whom
quality has always counted for far
more than quantity. Great size, in it-
self, is no recommendation. It is the
use to which great size is put which is
the ultimate consideration, and it
seems to me, and I say this sincerely,
that no race, unless it be the Jews, has
ever made more of the gifts which the
fates have bestowed upon it, than has
the Icelandic race.
The first Icelander whom 1 met was
Skuli Johnson. He tried to teach me
Latin at Wesley College. The fault
was not his. I have always regarded
him as typical of his race — larger in
size than the average, it is true, but
still typical.
He was a true scholar. Love of
knowledge was his ruling passion. He
had ambition but it was an ambition
which pointed in the right direction.
He had no thought of piling up pelf
for himself. His ambition was to pay
his passage through life by giving hon-
orable service—-the service of a dedi-
cated teacher—to his fellowmen.
Shortly before he died, Skuli John-
son was a patient in Grace Hospital.
For a few days, while undergoing an
operation, I was a patient in the next
room. As fellow-patients, we visited
back and forth. When I was leaving
the hospital I went to say good-bye to
him. These were his last words to me:
“Stubbs, they tell me I am through,
it is a great tragedy. I am just at my
best. I have more to give now than I