I am currently reading a volume of two transcendentalist essays: Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Nature and Henry David Thoreau’s Walking. I began reading Walking on the subway this morning and was much relieved to read this opening excerpt after Emerson’s, in my opinion, drier style:
I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of Walking, that is, of taking walks — who had a genius, so to speak, for sauntering, which word is beautifully derived “from idle people who roved about the country, in the Middle Ages, and asked charity, under pretense of going a la Sainte Terre,” to the Holy Land, till the children exclaimed, “There goes a Sainte-Terrer,” a Saunterer, a Holy-Lander. They who never go to the Holy Land in their walks, as they pretend, are indeed mere idlers and vagabonds; but they who do go there are saunterers in the good sense, such as I mean. Some, however, would derive the word from sans terre without land or a home, which, therefore, in the good sense, will mean, having no particular home, but equally at home everywhere. For this is the secret of successful sauntering. He who sits still in a house all the time may be the greatest vagrant of all; but the saunterer, in the good sense, is no more vagrant than the meandering river, which is all the while sedulously seeking the shortest course to the sea. But I prefer the first, which, indeed, is the most probable derivation. For every walk is a sort of crusade, preached by some Peter the Hermit in us, to go forth and reconquer this Holy Land from the hands of the Infidels.
It is true, we are but faint-hearted crusaders, even the walkers, nowadays, who undertake no persevering, never-ending enterprises. Our expeditions are but tours, and come round again at evening to the old hearthside from which we set out. Half the walk is but retracing our steps. We should go forth on the shortest walk, perchance, in the spirit of undying adventure, never to return, prepared to send back our embalmed hearts only as relics to our desolate kingdoms. If you are ready to leave father and mother, and brother and sister, and wife and child and friends, and never see them again — if you have paid your debts, and made your will, and settled all your affairs, and are a free man — then you are ready for a walk.
Many travel writers have explored the idea of wandering and, further, the importance of movement to living, even life. Bruce Chatwin comes to mind and, of course, Jack Kerouac too. John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley is another good exploration of what it means to wander. But they treat the philosophical underpinnings of the simple act of walking - or sauntering - through stories, fact and fiction.
In Walking, Thoreau is writing a thoughtful essay with only minor personal reference on what he considers to be a spiritual topic: going for a walk in the woods. Compared to what else is on my bookshelf, this is a unique perspective. It is also Thoreau’s unique perspective that one without a home is in fact at home everywhere. Prove me wrong; this is a favorite topic of mine and I’d love to know Thoreau is not alone.
Now for you etymology lovers, Thoreau’s musing on the origin of saunter is more than you’ll find anywhere else. Others suggest that it comes from the French s’aventurer or s’auntrer (to adventure with oneself) or have no idea at all.
Whatever the root meaning of the word, go forth and saunter!
REFERENCE
Walking (Google Books)
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