#lm irl

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La Presse, 4 December 1863

The Toulon newspapers have reported that a convict found a sum of 300 francs in the dockyard, and promptly handed it over to the captain of the guards, to be returned to its rightful owner. In Genoa, another convict saved a child at the risk of his own life. And more recently, a convict escaped from Toulon surrendered himself to a poor devil, who therefore earned a hundred-franc reward. Where does virtue fit in, and might it not be true that the premise of Victor Hugo's Les Misérables is not as paradoxical as it seems?

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Anacortes American, 24 January 1946

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Indianapolis Journal, 1 January 1904

actually his situation was nothing like Fantine's but I guess many people identify with their favorite characters.

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Indianapolis Times, 25 January 1930

Editor’s Note—Truth, indeed, can be stranger than fiction. The Times and NEA Service herewith present an exclusive interview with A. B. Crouch, Texas’ 1930 Jean Valjean, who tells how he dodged the law for thirteen long years and rose to success while a fugitive under an assumed name in far-off New Zealand. He recently returned to Texas and made restitution and is now en route back to New Zealand.

BY ALLEN BAKER Special NEA Service Correspondent (Copyright, 1330, NEA Service, Inc.)

Temple, Tex., Jan. 25.— Through the pages of Victor Hugo’s immortal romance "Les Miserables,” stalked a tragic and lonely figure— Jean Valjean, an escaped convict who had reformed and, under this assumed name, re-established himself in society to the extent that he became a mayor and prospered immensely.

But always he lived under the terrible shadow of the law. And one day the law found him out and sent him back to prison. And then, to provide the customary happy ending Victor Hugo had the hero of his novel restored to good standing and started him anew on a long and useful life.

Truth may not be stranger than fiction, but sometimes it is just as strange—even as strange as the fanciful fiction of Victor Hugo—and what has just happened in this little Texas town proves it. A 1930 Jean Valjean has been brought to light.

Somewhere out on the broad Pacific today, a bronzed, weather beaten man of 43, whose face is much older than his years and whose hair is prematurely tinged with gray, is aboard a ship, en route to Helensville, New Zealand. There, 10,000 miles from here, he is known as John Grey, a prosperous real estate dealer, a leading churchman, the father of a fine family and a popular candidate for mayor.

In Temple, he is known and remembered as A. B. Crouch, who fled from forgery indictments here thirteen years ago when his grain business went to the wall with a crash that involved $160,000. Police conducted a world-wide search for years and just recently he was arrested in New Zealand and brought back to face trial. Sheriff John B. Bingham traveled half way around the world to get his man.

But no trial was held. In cash or in faith, Crouch made restitution of the $160,000 to the satisfaction of the banks that had suffered by his actions in selling more grain than he had been able to deliver after dabbling in the market. So the charges against him were dropped.

Crouch told the story of his thirteen years as a fugitive and self imposed exile in an exclusive interview just before leaving Temple for his return to far-away New Zealand.

When he left Helensville friends made him promise to come back and continue his race for mayor.

"There is nothing so terrible as being an exile," Crouch began, "and it was so unnecessary and foolish for me to have left. Here I had lost and here I should have remained to re-establish myself. But I was young and foolish then—and scared."

"The disaster in 1917 overwhelmed me. I lost every penny I had in the world. In my own heart, I knew I had not willfully wronged any man, yet others had lost their money. But I had lost even more—l had lost faith in myself. I felt dishonored and ashamed—l felt every man was against me.”

Crouch straightened his towering frame in his chair, fixed his melancholy eyes on his interviewer and said: “For thirteen long years I was an exile from my native land —and, God, how long those years were!” Crouch went on. “For what seemed ages I traveled, traveled, traveled—not seeking friendly faces, but avoiding them. Always there was that haunting fear that I would be found out. "

"Long after I had fled from Texas I landed at Christ Church, New Zealand. Here, after traveling nearly half the distance around the world, I told myself I must feel safe. My wife and four children had joined me by that time and were with me."

"Can you realize how an exile feels about his native land? Every spot, every recollection seems hallowed to him. The houses he has passed with only an indifferent glance he now finds he loves. All the familiar places, the familiar scenes seem to call to him to come back. But you you can’t go back; all you can do is just dream."

[my note: I know that there's a quote just like this in Les Mis but I can't find it. Please does anyone know what I'm talking about?]

"In New Zealand we began to get acquainted with people. My wife taught music and we saved from her little income and my meager wages and soon leased a dairy farm and bought some cows on credit. We prospered in a small way."

"As my acquaintance broadened I could not resist the glowing opportunity to re-enter business. I chose real estate and moved to Helensville and did well, making friends and money. "

"I can not say I was wholly surprised when Sheriff Bingham came out to New Zealand for me. Nor was I glad. I had always felt that some day—sooner or later—this would happen. But I was glad of one thing—that I had had the chance to re-establish myself before the blow fell.

“Well, the sheriff brought me back and here I am.” 

"160,000 Forgery Suspect Held," San Pedro News Pilot, 6 December 1929 <-when he was captured it was front page news. this article has a bit more information.

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The Day Book, 22 August 1912

Do we really feel as we think we feel when we read the story of the greatest character of all fiction--Jean Valjean, the escaped convict in Victor Hugo's masterpiece, "Les Miserables?"  It is said of Laurence Sterne he shed tears over a dead ass, but was callous to the sufferings of a living mother. Are we a nation of Sternes who shed tears over the sorrows of an imaginary Jean Valjean, and send back to "hell," as he calls the outcast's life, a real Jean Valjean in the person of Alderman William Burke of Philadelphia? Burke was born a gutter-snipe and knew neither father nor mother. He became a thief, as you or I probably would have done under the circumstances. Because of his natural ability which would have made him a success in any other calling he became what the underworld calls "a goad thief." He was unvaryingly successful until he became a drug fiend, and then he was caught, because, as he says, a dope fiend "hasn't nerve enough to steal unless he has the stuff in him, and then he has no brains." He served seven years in state's prison. He broke himself of the drug habit. Would you or I have done that? He thought out his life task and resolved to live a straight life when he got out. And he made good on his resolves. Would you or I have done that? He saved a little money while working at his trade of wood finisher after he left prison with a suit of clothes and five dollars. Would you or have done that? He won the respect of his neighbors. He went into business and made some money. He married a respectable girl and has a child. He was a good speaker and helped to carry Philadelphia for the reform ticket which broke the hold of the old gang on that town. And now, he has sent in his resignation, with a full statement of the tragic facts of his life. He took it for granted that he would be execrated as soon as the people found out his secret. He intends to live straight and make a living for hjs family, but he seems to assume that nobody will give him credit for his triumph over the doom of birth, neglect, and education in crime. Is he right in his estimate of the unforgiving character of the American people? He has shown greater qualities in getting out of a life of crime than most of us have shown in keeping out. Is he right in thinking us incapable of seeing that fact? Mayor Blankenburg is in favor of not accepting Burke's resignation. Will Philadelphia stand with Blankenburg, or will those who think themselves without sin cast the stones at Burke which shall drive him out into the darkness? It is a test of our sincerity in admiring Jean Valjean. 

----

More information about his life, along with his first name (Benjamin H. Tripp) can be found here.

An update:

The Washington times, 19 August 1912

PHILADELPHIA, Aug. 19.— William Burke, who, rendered desperate by the blackmailing of a prison mate, resigned his seat in the city council, confessed his criminal career, and fled, has received the most magnanimous offer yet made him in the effort to bring him back to this city.

It remained for John L. Fehr, American representative of the Chinese Merchants' Association, to make the first practical proposition to this modern Jean Valjean to come home Philadelphia and face the music.

Striking because of the practical Christianity in the offer, it is made doubly so because Fehr himself six years ago completed a prison term and has since risen to a position of respect in this community and has overcome his past to such an extent that he is now a well-trusted business man.

There are no strings to Fehr's offer, for he has promised that, if Burke will come back, he will provide him with a set of stock and fixtures and set him up in the cigar business on a large scale and let him take his own time in repaying the money.

Fehr described his struggles and told of the successful business which he had built up and how social workers had come to him for aid and that he gradually had risen until now he is one of the most trusted men in his community. Fehr then added feelingly:

"It is not the persons who live blameless lives themselves that Burke has to fear. It is the crooks, the envious, the hypocrites, and those who will slink away when their own pasts are bared that a man who leaves prison has to fear."

Encouraging words and offers of help have led Burke to decide to return to Philadelphia within a week.

"After weeks of sleeplessness and terror I at last feel like a man," said the former convict at his place of seclusion. "No longer pursued by the fear of exposure and the consequences to myself and family, I will be able to devote my best energies to gaining an honest livelihood." Burke's looks gave strong corroboration to his claim that the world has assumed a more rosy hue to his eyes, for he talked with a cheery air and referred confidently to his ability to start life anew.

"That is the right attitude," declared Mayor Blankenburg, when told, at Pocono Pines, of Burke's decision. "Now that he has made a clean breast of it he should come forward and face the music like a man. There may be some persons who may not care to have anything to do with him, but he will take the sympathy of the great majority, and they will be glad to help him."

"Mayor Blankenburg's offer to help is very kind, and I am grateful to him and to the many others who have sympathized with me," said Burke. "I am now sure that I will win my next fight for an honorable place in Philadelphia.

"Politics, however," continued Mr. Burke, "will never again lure me. I will be content with private employment. It was the limelight that brought me in the clutches of the man who bled me, and I shall never forget the lesson.

"I am glad now, however, that my story is known, for wherever I go will know that whatever respect or esteem I gain is sincere and not likely to be blotted out by exposure of an unfortunate past.

"I have made up my mind to return to Philadelphia," said Burke. "I fled from the city because I could not remain and stand the humiliation of the confession. I feel much encouraged, however, by the kind words of Mayor Blankenburg, and also by the sympathy expressed by others.

"Why should I not return? It is the only logical thing for me to do. If I go to another city it would be a case of the old story over again. People would find out sooner or later that I had a prison record at one time, and then there would be more explaining to do.

"When I return it will be under the name of William Burke. I am going to face the music like a man. I had the nerve to live down the past for eight years, and I will have the courage to do it again in the future. I am going to be honest and to make my living by hard work. I am through with being a crook, and would not return to the old life for anything.

"If I had wanted to be crooked while I lived in Philadelphia. I could have worn diamonds, the same as I did before I went to prison; but I wanted to be honest. And I am going to stay that way."

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The Syracuse Journal, 27 February 1913

Denver, Colo. —Victor Hugo’s story of Jean Valjean in “Les Miserables” is duplicated in many of the circumstances surrounding an eighteen-year-old Colorado boy who three years ago ran away from the industrial school at Golden, worked himself into a good position and then, a year after he had been married to a Des Moines, lowa, girl, found his past rising behind him, relentless as Hugo's Inspector Javert. Six years ago Rosie E. Sheldon’s father died at Glenwood Springs. A year later the boy was sent to the industrial school for boys at Golden as incorrigible. The intervening year the mother had lost all control over him and it was at her request that he was taken in charge by the state. The state made a poor job of reforming Sheldon. Its method of curing high spirits did not succeed, and Sheldon ran away. The first few times he ran away he was caught and brought back. Early in 1910 he managed to slip away and stay lost. The officers looked for him a few weeks and then gave up the search, although they did not forget. Sheldon went to Des Moines, lowa and there started out to do what the big state of Colorado had not been able to do. He started out to reform himself. He got a job in the big Cownie glove factory at $10 a week, commenced to save his money and to go to night school. Before long his salary was raised, and then pretty soon it was raised again, and he was given a responsible position. A little more than a year ago he met and fell in love with the daughter of a Des Moines business man. The two were married and started housekeeping. Sheldon was so happy that he wrote to his mother in Denver to tell her about his wife and the baby had just come. He told her the new name he had taken when he ran away from the reform school. The mother told some of her friends, Sheldon’s younger brother, now in the school, heard where his brother was, and through some of these sources Superintendent Fred L. Paddleford of the industrial school board heard where his runaway had gone. It was not long thereafter that Chief of Detectives Johnson of Des Moines arrested Sheldon and took him to jail. Sheldon told the story to the detective and begged to be released. Dispatches that carried the story did not state whether the detective had ever heard of Jean Valjean and the good bishop, but it is in the role of the bishop that Detective Johnson figures from now on. He promised the boy that although he couldn’t let him go he would take an appeal direct to the governor of Colorado and ask him to grant a pardon to the runaway boy who had made good. Governor Shaforth said that he would act in the case as soon as it was officially called to his attention and would take whatever action the facts might warrant. Superintendent Fred L. Paddleford of the school declared that the boy must be returned to the school “for the sake of discipline.” “The fact that Sheldon is married and apparently doing all right now can’t be taken as any excuse," the superintendent said. “The only way we have to preserve order here and to prevent the boys running away whenever they get tired of staying is to make severe example of them when they are caught. “If Sheldon were made an exception the chances are that all the boys would plan to run away and get married.”

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Le Nouvelliste de La Rochelle, 4 October 1862

A tragedy reminiscent of one of the episodes in the novel Les Misérables (but with all the superiority of reality over fiction) took place over the course of the last few days in an obscure cottage in one of the parishes in the diocese of Moulins. A freed convict, who had spent eighteen years in the bagne of Toulon (for complicity in a robbery by night), has just died in Vicq, in the canton of Ebreuil, at the age of 70, after a long life of modesty, contemplation and atonement. Gentle and humble towards all, for more than thirty years since his release this man had never once deserved to be reminded of his past, which he made others forget because he always remembered.

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The Advocate, 17 January 1894

How many Jean Valjeans are there in America to-day? How many men are driven to desperation by the pangs of hunger or by the cries for bread of starving children. How many men to-day are languishing in American prisons, separated from wives and children who were dependent upon them for their daily bread, and who would now be upright and honored citizens but for deeds done in desperation to save loved ones from want? How many others are homeless wanderers, tramps, vagabonds, who but for the hard conditions imposed upon them by society, would be now engaged in industrial pursuits, living honorable lives, and contributing to the aggregate of our national wealth? Public officials and boards of charity talk of aid to the “worthy" poor. Who are the worthy poor, and who the unworthy? Why is the one worthy and the other unworthy? By what peculiar marks are they to be distinguished? [ . . . ] The Kansas City Journal of December 23, 1893, had the following local: Charles Hall, who claims Danville, Ky., as his home, was arrested last night by Sergeant Miller, who discovered him in the act of stealing an overcoat from the doorway of a clothing store at Ninth and Maine streets. When taken to the Central police station, Hall told the police that he saw Sergeant Miller and a squad of policemen coming up the street, and that he took the coat just when he did, so that they would see him. He said he did not want to escape from the officers, and is glad that he was caught. He told Captain Flahive that he hoped he would get six months in the county jail as a punishment for stealing the coat, and that he would much rather be in jail than out in the world with no money or friends. Where would our boards of charity class this man— with the worthy or unworthy poor? [. . .] O, shame upon such a civilization! Shame upon a governmental system that can exercise no care for its citizens unless they first become criminals. O, for another Victor Hugo to picture the shame of our American civilization as that inimitable writer has pictured the like evils in France!