It is no longer permitted to be poor; still less to appear poor. It is not yet a legal crime but a social one. It is comparatively easy to evade punishment for legal crimes, but punishment for a social crime is as swift as it is merciless. No defense is possible because the prosecutor and judge is invisible. There is no defense and no appeal. No higher court to reverse judgment on technical or constitutional grounds. Accusation alone is equivalent to condemnation.

"There was a time when the poor of the land were an institution, as respectable as they were part of the scheme which recognized them. The poor did not have to dress like the rich, did not have to live like the rich, act like the rich, and be buried like the rich.

"But those times are gone. A fifteen dollar a week clerk is supposed to dress in clothes as expensive as his superior who receives four times the amount. He is not considered "ambitious" if he does not starve himself to appear spick and span every day of the week. Sinkers and coffee for lunch after a breakfast-less breakfast, to buy a neat silk necktie. No lunch at all to have a suit pressed. Dinnerless dinners to buy new shoes or a new hat. The shoemakers have forgotten how to put patches on shoes. The mothers have forgotten how to patch up a worn-out seat or a threaded elbow. It is no longer done."

The above is the beginning of an essay on poverty I found among the papers of the deceased Italian poet Gagliano. Where the impetus of thought of such a beginning would have led him is difficult to follow. He never finished the essay. I am inclined to think that Gagliano did not have the heart, though he had the mind, to pursue the logical sequence of thoughts of his theory. He was a poet, a sweet singer, and he hated and avoided what was engendered by bitterness.

He had been poor so many years that it was becoming to him. Poverty fitted him as well as his worn coat and greenish sombrero. Should Gagliano have suddenly exhibited signs of prosperity it would have scandalized every one.

Daily, for years his long, thin legs kicked open the door of the spaghetti joint at noon. Until food was brought by the old waiter, he wiped his eyeglasses, stroked his beard and brushed back his long hair with the flat of his hand. While eating he read a book or a magazine. His skilled fork wound the long paste round itself and carried it automatically to the mouth without the slightest splurging generally attending the eating of the Italian national dish. But it is not of Gagliano's skilled spaghetti eating that I want to speak. I want to tell how Gagliano lost his job with Rinaldini the banker. It had kept him alive for years. He had counted pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters until his finger tips were calloused. He had written rhymed advertisements and jingles to pay for the little food and the few books in which better things were written by more fortunate though not more talented brothers of the pen. He starved with clock-like regularity, although his poems appeared in the "better" magazines of his language.

Rinaldini the banker, his employer, was a bluff, ignorant man who had won the confidence of his countrymen. It was his only stock and capital. He payed interest to one, from the capital of another. He had done that for years. He loaned money to pay the expense of Christenings, and great festive weddings. Most of the pompous burials of the district were financed by Signor Rinaldini on a ten per cent weekly payment after a generous interest was charged on the total. From these things and commissions from undertakers, music leaders and confectioners, Rinaldini made a living. What other expenses he incurred was from capital deposited in his bank by the credulous customers. Rinaldini liked Gagliano. He was proud to have such a man in his employ. Whenever some one was pleased with some of Gagliano's rhymes in the papers the banker accepted the praise good-naturedly; and the "fratellis" of the different lodges and societies to which he belonged, of most of which he was the founder and treasurer, never knew that another one wrote the "Poesia" they liked so much.

When Italy entered the war a hundred different Italian charities were trumpeted over the city. Several bankers were in line competing for the treasureships. Rinaldini then started a campaign of his own. He started the work by giving to all charities lavishly. If Postarnelli, another banker, had given hundred dollars, he gave thousand. When Pallorie, one of the richest bankers in the district, gave thousand dollars to a charity fund, Rinaldini strained himself to double the amount. It impressed everybody and drew customers. Rinaldini moved out of the Mulberry district into a more fashionable one and began to entertain lavishly. He fitted out his home with costly furniture and even became a patron of the arts. A celebrated Italian sculptor received the commission for the banker's bust and a painter did him in lively colors.

At those entertainments, Gagliano's presence was frequently requested. He wrote out the speeches which the banker delivered. Many of the "notabiles" were astounded by the exhibition of so much learning. Petrarc, D'Anunzio and Negri furnished the best lines. They were like written for the occasion. So much learning and so high a patriotism was never expected from Rinaldini. A movement was soon on foot to call the attention of the Italian King to Rinaldini's great devotion. The banker anticipated being ennobled and became even more fastidious and luxurious. The old bachelor began seriously to think of wedding bells with some lady of nobility. He became an authority on art and literature and his opinions were quoted by newspapers.

Gagliano, the poet, was worked harder and harder. He grew bitter and frequently made caustic remarks. He also grew thinner and thinner. He made real contributions, money from his own pocket, to the innumerable war charities. The prices of food advanced in the restaurants.

On an evening as the whole cream of the colony was assembled at Rinaldini's, the banker, to make an impression on his guests, began to brag about his possessions.

"That chandelier in the vestibule cost me a thousand dollars. Yonder carved table costs five hundred. Some of the bric-a-brac on the mantelpiece costs thousands." And, pointing to a guitar standing in a corner of the room, he remarked: "For that guitar I paid a hundred dollars."

"That is not so much! Mine comes much higher than that!" interrupted Gagliano lightly. Every one turned and looked at him. Every one knew how poor he was.

"You see," Gagliano explained, "originally I paid for it only twenty dollars. But in the six years I worked for Signor Rinaldini, I have pawned it every Tuesday and redeemed it every Saturday so as to have it for Sunday, and the interest and the fixed charge of twenty-five cents, the usurer from the pawnshop forces me to pay, has brought up the cost of the guitar to way beyond a hundred dollars."

Gagliano's words iced the enthusiasm and admiration for Rinaldini. The poet lost his job. Rinaldini never received the coveted medal. Treasureship of many societies was withdrawn. In six months he was bankrupt. Gagliano died some months later.