Французский философ Токвиль исследовал американскую дикую природу и столкнулся с медведями

Once upon a time, there was a man named Alexis Charles Henri Clérel, comte de Tocqueville, but nobody called him that because it was a nuisance to pronounce and spell. Besides, “Alexis” is more of a girl’s name. Despite this handicap, he wrote a magnificent book called “Democracy in America,” which made his name synonymous with the phrase “That French prat who thinks he knows more about us than we do.” But Tocqueville (we’re not on a first-name basis. I refuse to call him “Alexis”) didn’t just make things up about the United States. He sailed here to investigate the country and learn more about its peoples, practices, and ptraditions. Sorry, I needed to get the alliteration in. So instead of telling you about the profound observations he made about us, I’ll relate the story of his rambles through America. He wrote a book about those too, “A Fortnight in the Wilderness.” But nobody reads that except me. Tocqueville and his chum, Comte Gustave Auguste Bonnin de la Bonninière de Beaumont – yes, that was his appellation, even though “Auguste” is sort of a girl’s name – landed in Newport, Rhode Island, and after spending time dithering up and down the coast, struck out west. They wanted to see forests. Naturally, when they asked where the forests were, Americans laughed their heads off and pointed there, and there, and there. Tocqueville was not amused. He seldom was. He and Beaumont wanted to see real, genuine Nature. They did not have to travel far to meet some Nature in person. They had ridden well into the night and looked for shelter somewhere near Saginaw, Michigan. They found a cabin surrounded by a fence and, showing their aristocratic respect for property, attempted to climb over it. Immediately, they “saw in the moonlight a great black bear that, standing on his hind-legs and at the very extremity of his chain, showed [them] clearly as he could his intention to give [them] a fraternal embrace.” “What an infernal country is this,” asked Tocqueville, “where they keep bears for watchdogs?” Well, maybe if they didn’t try to invade the owner’s property, the bear wouldn’t try to give them warm, fuzzy hugs. The two survived (hurray?) and continued on, hiring Native American guides to take them further into the wilderness. After coming to a river, another indigene tapped Tocqueville on the shoulder and remarked, in perfect, Norman-accented French, that people often drowned there. Tocqueville jumped – not into the water – and noted, “If my horse had addressed me, I should not, I think, have been more astonished.” They went across the river in a canoe and encountered what Tocqueville called “the curse of the American wilderness.” Was it another bear? Wolves? Rattlesnakes? Non. It was “musquitoes,” according to our French gents. And miserable they were, too. The same Native American guided the two to Canada, where on the way, the guide walked very carefully in a line. “Why are you so cautious?” inquired Tocqueville. “Are you afraid of the damp?” “No,” he replied, “I have acquired the habit of always looking at my feet lest I should tread on a rattle-snake.” “Diable!” cried Tocqueville. “Are there any rattle-snakes here?” “Oh, yes, indeed!” answered the guide “with perfect indifference.” “The place is full of them.” Tocqueville and Beaumont also proceeded to walk in a line. They walked down from Canada, then right, then across the ocean back to France. I lied. They took a boat to France. But the effect was the same. They never returned to the United States. But they wrote books about it. I’d love to ramble through the wilderness too, but I’m afraid of bears. And meeting French people. Copyright 2026 Alexandra Paskhaver, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate. Alexandra Paskhaver is a software engineer and writer. Both jobs require knowing where to stick semicolons, but she’s never quite; figured; it; out. Feel free to contact her at [email protected]