Frank J. Pierce did more to form my mind and characternthan did anyone else except my mother. A village Hampden,nMr. Pierce was the champion of the working-classnLower Town—a village commissioner, president of thentown’s school board, advisor to everybody who sought hisncounsel, as many did. He had been born in a log cabin; hadnshifted with his family to Mecosta, up north; had labored onna farm in the wake of the Panic of ’93; had studied music forna term at Valparaiso University, in northern Indiana; hadneducated himself in history and literature and mathematics;nhad become a bank manager, and later a restaurateur; laternstill he would be manager of the Lower Town branch of thenPlymouth United Savings Bank, “strong as the Rock ofnGibraltar,” on Liberty Street, an easy stroll from his house.nThe handsome shelves of his bookcases in the long livingnroom were crammed with sets of Dickens, Mark Twain,nHugo, Macaulay. Ridpath’s three-volume illustrated Historynof the World, bound in calf, became my introduction tonhistorical consciousness. Presently, as I grew, my grandfatherngave me Van Loon’s The Story of Mankind and two ornthree years after that H.G. Wells’s Outline of History. (Inwould sense that the latter, though so interesting, somehownwas wrongheaded.)nOn Frank Pierce’s library table—later to become thenstation of the ancestral typewriter on which I wouldncompose The Conservative Mind, and on which sits an IBMnnow, as I type this paragraph—lay copies oiThe Bookmannand The Literary Digest. (At the age of nine or 10, I wouldnhawk the latter magazine door to door.) These books andnperiodicals were Frank Pierce’s friends: Although he hadnmany admirers in the North End, he admitted no intimates.nIt was with his grandson that he talked and walked.nEven when, of an evening, Mr. Pierce walked Mill Streetnand Liberty Street collarless and in his shirtsleeves, hencarried himself with a certain leisurely confidence andndignity, portly in both the archaic and the colloquialnsignifications of that word. His clothing exuded the fragrancenof potpourri and of the good soaps that his wife, Eva,nsecreted in his dresser drawers. Theodore Roosevelt was hisnhero: Once, when grandfather and grandson were at thenmovie-house, the picture of Teddy was flashed upon thenscreen briefly, and Frank Pierce applauded loudly butnalone, to his shy grandson’s embarrassment.nAs Roosevelt’s disciple, Pierce now and again set his facenagainst Vested Interests. On the village council, he defeatedna proposal to supply water free of charge to the Daisy AirnRifle Company—at the risk of being dismissed from hisnpost at the bank through the vengeance of Daisy.nShould young married couples without visible assets benunable to qualify for a bank loan, Frank Pierce mightnadvance them a sum from his own pocket, out of his salarynof $200 a month, thereby laying up treasure in Heaven,nconceivably—although he never spoke of Heaven ornHell—but not here below, for he took no interest on suchnprivate loans. As a small boy, I spent much time with himnat the bank, stamping cancellations or endorsements onnchecks for him, and even making building blocks of thensafety-deposit boxes in the vault.nHe was perfectly honest and perfectly fearless. Banknrobberies were all the rage in the later 1920’s, and the NorthnEnd branch of the Plymouth United Savings Bank was notnspared. In a handy drawer there. Pierce kept his revolver; innthe breast pocket of his jacket, a tear-gas fountain pen.nHe foiled several attempts at robbery. On one occasion, ancrazy farmer thrust a shotgun in his face, declaring that thenbank had cheated him and must give him all its money.nMr. Pierce calmly stated that first he must telephone thenbank’s president to obtain permission for so large a transaction;nthe farmer assented. Actually Mr. Pierce callednGeorge Springer, the deputy sheriff, and that worthynneighbor scurried through the alley to the bank, crept uponnthe farmer, and disarmed him. In the winter of 1929,nconfronted by two armed men. Pierce dropped below thentellers’ counter and pulled the tear-gas lever. Because thenbank’s janitor had a way of hitting that lever with hisnpush-broom accidentally, so sending staff and customersnflying outdoors with streaming eyes, the gas canister happenednto be empty; but the noise of its explosion wasnmistaken by the robbers for a gunshot, and they dashednaway, to be caught by George Springer in the street.nMr. Pierce’s only defeat occurred near the end of his life.nStarting out early one morning to walk from his house tonthe bank, he was asked directions by two persons sitting in ancar parked at the curb. In his courteous way, the oldngentleman came up close to reply. On being greeted by thenmuzzle of a submachine gun, he found it necessary to enternthe automobile. Of the occupants, one was a hardfacednvoluble man, clearly an accomplished professional criminal;nthe other, who never spoke, was dressed as a woman,nbut presumably was a disguised man.nHaving driven Pierce to the bank, these two compellednhim to unlock the street door, entered, and demanded thatnhe open the vault. He told his captors that a time-locknsecured the vault, even against himself until the hour ofneight. “We know that already, Mr. Pierce,” the volublenman said. “We’ll wait the half hour.”nDuring the interval, the principal robber favored Mr.nPierce with some account of his life and hard times. Thenman subscribed to the argument of the sophist Thrasymachusn(although without reference to The Republic) that lawsnare a device of the strong to exploit the weak. Thisnphilosophical bandit had been born to low estate; butnknowing himself by nature one of the strong, he had set outnto redress his condition; and by setting the law at defiance,nhe had succeeded famously. This dialectical apology—notnput so formally as I have expressed it—the man with thensubmachine gun offered for disturbing the even tenor ofnMr. Pierce’s ways.nThe hour of eight being arrived, Mr. Pierce was instructednto open the vault. He refused.nAt this, the chief robber declared that he must shoot hisncaptive. He explained that this would be a hard necessity,nunpleasant, he having taken a liking to the bank manager;nbut his professional reputation depended upon enforcementnof his commands. “Where’d I be if I didn’t get the cashnevery time?”nThis Thrasymachus meant business. Frank Pierce turnednthe dial and opened the vault.nThen the two robbers drove off with the cash and thenbank manager. On my way to school past the bank, I foundna crowd assembled there, and my grandfather missing.nThe bandits took Frank Pierce to a barn on a desolatennnFEBRUARY 1987 /11n