BEHIND my house, at some little distance, there is a broad green lane which winds along between lofty hedges, where the blackberry, the sloe, and the hawthorn flourish, and dwarf oak and ash and wild rose bushes grow luxuriantly; where wild birds nestle in the thickets and wild rabbits burrow in the banks beneath. Save when the cow-herd drives his charge a-field, or leads them home at milking-time, it is seldom trodden, for, although broad enough for a high road, it really leads nowhere in particular, but, after wandering away for a good distance, ends in a stream of water and a five-barred gate. “What a curious lane,” you will say; and so it is, and a very pleasant one too, for there is plenty to look at and much to delight the eye and the ear. In the spring time there are flowers and birds’ nests in abundance, and all the summer long the blackbird and thrush, the lark and the linnet, and a host of other feathery minstrels, make music very much sweeter to listen to than those noisy bands that haunt the streets of London and other large towns. Wouldn’t you like to be there among the flowers and birds on a bright summer’s day?
Yes, I am sure you would; especially when the blackberries are ripe and the hips-and-haws are shining in the sun like numberless little red apples. How you would like to climb the banks and pluck them, or peep into the thickets to spy out some strange bird or wild flower, such as you have never seen before! How pleasant to watch the golden butterflies fluttering over the flowers, or the dragon-fly sporting on his glorious wings about the rush-grown fish-pond by the side of the road; to ramble far away to the end of the lane, where the murmuring stream crosses the path and flows wide and shallow beneath a long low arch of dense foliage, until it is lost in the meadows beyond, while high overhead the saucy rook going home to his nest in the wood on the hill greets you with a loud “caw,” as if he wanted to know what business you had there! Yes, I am quite sure you would like a ramble in “Old Lane” (for that is the name it is known by) when the summer’s sun is shining or autumn’s wild fruits are hanging on the hawthorn and the wild rose-bush and the blackberry-tree. But summer days soon pass away, and autumn’s warm hours grow shorter and shorter. Cold November comes at last, and drizzling rains and frosty nights soon strip the branches of both leaves and fruit, and then how dreary does the Old Lane become! The fish-pond overflows its sedgy banks, the murmuring stream below becomes a torrent, the grass-grown road, ploughed into deep mud by the frequent tramp of the herds on their way out and home, is like a bog, the flowers are all withered, the trees are all bare, and the tall hedges, so luxuriantly green but a little while before, and fluttering their leaves in every passing breeze, stand all still and naked in the cold gray light, mere skeletons of their former selves—weird spectral forms traced out against the wintry sky. Poor Old Lane! Its beauty has vanished like a dream—its verdure is all gone, its leaves and blossoms have perished, the music of the birds is heard no more, the murmur of its stream has changed into an angry roar, and, if a bird flits by, it is in silence and alarm, knowing that it has no shelter there!
And now, little reader, what do you think Old Lane reminds me of? Well, I will tell you: it reminds me of those words (Eccl. 11:9), “Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth, and let thine heart cheer thee in the days of thy youth, and walk in the ways of thine heart and in the sight of thine eyes, but—” how does it all end? In disappointment; yes, and something worse than disappointment, for it ends in death and judgment! The world and its ways may seem very pleasant while youth and health remain, and all things are prosperous like the spring and summer time amongst the flowers and foliage of that green Old Lane; but the winter of this life comes at last, and then what remains? You know the worldly man must die, and then, even though he may have enjoyed this world for a season, what shall it profit him “if he lose his own soul?” Will the memory of what he once enjoyed soothe his misery then? Does the recollection of the summer gladness of Old Lane make it look any brighter in its wintry desolation? Oh, dear no; but rather the worse by contrast. When Abram said to the rich man, “Son, remember,” do you think the remembrance of what he once possessed would lighten his anguish? Ah, no; it would but increase his wretchedness a thousand fold!
So, then, the happiness which this world may give is at best but like the fleeting beauty in which spring and summer time clothe Old Lane. When “the harvest is past and the summer is ended;” when wintry winds and drenching rains prevail, the sweet scene closes in dreary desolation. And as Old Lane ends in a stream of water and a gate that bars the traveler’s path, so he that walks in the ways of his own heart and the sight of his own eyes will find at last that his sins have forever barred his way to heaven and happiness and eternal rest. But he that comes to Jesus by faith, especially while young, like you, dear reader, will learn that “Wisdom’s ways are pleasantness and all her paths are peace,” and, unlike Old Lane, will never wither, but endure forever.