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By Arthur Miller

"I think that the reader will realize the following the basic nature of 1 of the strangest and so much lousy chapters in human history," Arthur Miller wrote in an advent to The Crucible, his vintage play concerning the witch-hunts and trials in seventeenth-century Salem, Massachusetts. according to old humans and genuine occasions, Miller's drama is a searing portrait of a neighborhood engulfed through hysteria. within the inflexible theocracy of Salem, rumors that ladies are practising witchcraft impress the town's most elementary fears and suspicions; and whilst a tender lady accuses Elizabeth Proctor of being a witch, self-righteous church leaders and townspeople insist that Elizabeth be dropped at trial. The ruthlessness of the prosecutors and the fervour of neighbor to testify opposed to neighbor brilliantly light up the harmful strength of socially sanctioned violence. Written in 1953, The Crucible is a replicate Miller makes use of to mirror the anti-communist hysteria encouraged via Senator Joseph McCarthy's "witch-hunts" within the usa. in the textual content itself, Miller contemplates the parallels, writing "Political opposition...is given an inhumane overlay, which then justifies the abrogation of all more often than not utilized customs of civilized habit. A political coverage is equated with ethical correct, and competition to it with diabolical malevolence."

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Yet let them only share the praises due, If few their wants, their pleasures are but few; For every want, that stimulates the breast, Becomes a source of pleasure when redressed. 215 Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies, [] That first excites desire, and then supplies; Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, To fill the languid pause with finer joy; [] 35 Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, 220 Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame. [] Their level life is but a smouldering fire, Unquenched by want, unfanned by strong desire; Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer, On some high festival of once a year, 225 In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire.

I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, 90 Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 95 I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return—and die at home at last. O blest retirement, friend to life’s decline, Retreats from care that never must be mine, How happy he who crowns in shades like these, 100 A youth of labour with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And, since ’tis hard to combat, learns to fly.

But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 220 Where once the signpost caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, Where greybeard mirth and smiling toil retired, Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round. 225 Imagination fondly stoops to trace 53 The parlour splendours of that festive place; The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor, [] The varnished clock that clicked behind the door; The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 230 A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; The pictures placed for ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; [] The hearth, except when winter dulled the day, With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay, 235 While broken teacups, wisely kept for show, Ranged o’er the chimney, glistened in a row.

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