Can we, with this key to its intellectual history, be
really astonished that Shankhill Road should move all its life in a red
mist of superstition. The North of Ireland abounds in instances, trivial
and tragic, of this obsession. Here it is the case of the women of a
certain town who, in order to prevent their children from playing in a
dangerous swamp close by, have taught them that there are "wee Popes" in
it. There it is a case of man picked up, maimed and all but unconscious
after an accident, screwing up his lips to utter one last "To Hell with
the Pope!" before he dies. I remember listening in Court to the
examination of an old Orangeman who had been called as a witness to the
peaceable disposition of a friend of his. "What sort of man," asked the
counsel, "would you say Jamie Williamson is?" "A quiet, decent man." "Is
he the sort of man that would be likely to be breaking windows?" "No man
less likely." "Is he the sort of man that you would expect to find at
the head of a mob shouting, 'To Hell with the Pope'?" Witness, with
great emphasis: "No.
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