When we have a fetish for something it calls up powerful stuff inside us. Like a magnet with iron filings, it tends to create it's own antipole. Verne's rapturous, border-orgasmic view of coal, of industry and mining leaves a kind of dark space in his writing on the opposite side, that is often where the poetry leaks through.
First, a useful piece of Ludography taken from 19th Century potboiler logic. If players receive a letter asking them to go somewhere they have never been by someone they knew a long time ago for an unspecified reason or reward, they may or may not go. If, a day later, they receive a second letter, written in a strange hand, on a torn up piece of scrap paper, telling them absolutely not to come under any circumstances, then they definately will.
With Verne, the poetry seems to leak out round the edges. The main characters are ok-but-dull. The written picture of Scotland is clearly a product of love, but could have been written by anyone. But then this:-