Breakfast was hurried over, for the day was too bright for in-doors discourse; the elastic spirits born of the glad clear atmosphere required motion, and the look wandered after the sunshine.

Strange rubbish, not the tins and paper and boxes and other containers you would expect in a town, but a finer kind of waste […] that made the middens look like grey-black mounds of sifted earth.

Here, the emphasis is somewhat deflatingly on the artifice in “Cymbeline.”

Along that part of the coast of Greenland where the ice-foot is shed at the end of every summer, the quantities of rock debris thus borne seawards must be something prodigious.