There is nothing which stamps authenticity more strongly upon Bruce's narrative than the artless simplicity with which he writes; and it is only justice to infer, that he, who so honestly expresses what he feels, must be equally faithful in relating what he sees; for how many more inducements have we to conceal the truth in the one case than in the other! To describe what we see is an easy and no unpleasing task; but to unbosom our feelings is almost always to expose our weakness! But Bruce has no concealments; and his thoughts and sentiments, whatever they are, are always frankly thrown before his reader. How very natural are his feelings on reaching the fountains of the Nile, and what a serious moral do they offer! For a few moments he riots in the extravagance of his triumph, exulting that a Briton had done what kings and armies had been unable to accomplish; and yet he suddenly finds himself overpowered with a melancholy which, at such a moment, might first appear even more singular than any of the very extraordinary scenes which he had previously described; still, as the artless child of nature, how much real cause had he for such feelings! It may appear strange that Bruce should dread, on his return, dangers which, in advancing, he had so carelessly and daringly encountered; but he had then his object to gain: the inestimable prize was before him, to his ardent imagination decked with ten thousand charms, and beckoning to him to advance: when, however, he had reached the goal, he suddenly awoke as from a dream--the vision now vanishes--nothing remains before him but "a hillock of green sod;" and then, with Byron, he is ready to exclaim,
"The lovely toy, so keenly sought, Has lost its charms by being caught."
The Nile was no more an object of anxious curiosity. Bruce had no longer to fly towards its source on the light wings of expectation; but, like the bee laden with its honey, he must now carry his burden to his distant hive; and, thus freighted, his shattered frame worn by fatigue, exhausted by a burning sun, and no longer supported by the excitement of his mind, he naturally trembled at the dangers which threatened to intercept him.
The texture of the human mind is so delicately fine, that it is often affected by causes which to the judgment are imperceptible; and, although Bruce does not declare it, yet it is not improbable that his melancholy sprang mainly from the thought, how little, after all, his discovery was worth the trouble it had cost him. It had, it was true, "baffled the genius, industry, and inquiry of both ancients and moderns for near three thousand years," and it was equally true that "a mere private Briton had triumphed over kings and their armies;" but, after all, did the source of the Nile, in the great scheme of creation, rank as an object worthy of so much attention? What proportion did a puny rill, that might flow through a pipe of two inches in diameter, bear to that vast rolling mass of waters which gave fertility to Egypt? And again, Was the "hillock of green sod before him" actually the source of that immense river, or did it only nourish one of the innumerable streams which fed the "father of waters?" In short, had not human curiosity been pushed too far, and had it made any other discovery than of its own weakness?