1757. Tuesday, May 31. -- I breakfasted at Dumfries and spent an hour with a poor backslider of London, who had been for some years settled there. We then rode through an uncommonly Pleasant country (so widely distant is common report from truth) to Thorny Hill, two or three miles from the Duke of Queensborough's seat; an ancient and noble pile of building, delightfully situated on the side of a pleasant and fruitful hill. But it gives no pleasure to its owner, for he does not even behold it with his eyes. Surely this is a sore evil under the sun; a man has all things and enjoys nothing.

We rode afterward partly over and partly between some of the finest mountains, I believe, in Europe; higher than most, if not than any, in England, and clothed with grass to the very top. Soon after four we came to Lead Hill, a little town at the foot of the mountains, wholly inhabited by miners.