Prison for Oscar Wilde, an English prison with its insufficient bad food[1] and soul-degrading routine for that amiable, joyous, eloquent, pampered Sybarite.

Here was a test indeed; an ordeal as by fire.

What would he make of two years' hard labour in a lonely cell?
There are two ways of taking prison, as of taking most things, and all the myriad ways between these two extremes; would Oscar be conquered by it and allow remorse and hatred to corrupt his very heart, or would he conquer the prison and possess and use it?
Hammer or anvil--which?
Victory has its virtue and is justified of itself like sunshine; defeat carries its own condemnation.

Yet we have all tasted its bitter waters: only "infinite virtue" can pass through life victorious, Shakespeare tells us, and we mortals are not of infinite virtue.

The myriad vicissitudes of the struggle search out all our weaknesses; test all our powers.