It was in this shop that I inquired whether there was published a book on
piracy in Cornwall. Now, I had lately come from Tintagel on the Cornish
coast, and as I had climbed upon the rocks and looked down upon the sea, I
had wondered to myself whether, if the knowledge were put out before me, I
could compose a story of Spanish treasure and pirates. For I am a prey to
such giddy ambition. A foul street--if the buildings slant and topple--will
set me thinking delightfully of murders. A wharf-end with water lapping
underneath and bits of rope about will set me itching for a deep-sea plot.
Or if I go on broader range and see in my fancy a broken castle on a hill,
I'll clear its moat and sound trumpets on its walls. If there is pepper
in my mood, I'll storm its dungeon. Or in a softer moment I'll trim its
unsubstantial towers with pageantry and rest upon my elbow until I fall
asleep. So being cast upon the rugged Cornish coast whose cliffs are so
swept with winter winds that the villages sit for comfort in the hollows,
it was to be expected that my thoughts would run toward pirates.

There is one rock especially which I had climbed in the rain and fog of
early morning. A reckless path goes across its face with a sharp pitch to
the ocean. It was so slippery and the wind so tugged and pulled to throw me
off, that although I endangered my dignity, I played the quadruped on the
narrower parts. But once on top in the open blast of the storm and safe
upon the level, I thumped with desire for a plot. In each inlet from the
ocean I saw a pirate lugger--such is the pleasing word--with a keg of rum
set up. Each cranny led to a cavern with doubloons piled inside. The
very tempest in my ears was compounded out of ships at sea and wreck and
pillage. I needed but a plot, a thread of action to string my villains on.
If this were once contrived, I would spice my text with sailors' oaths and
such boasting talk as might lie in my invention. Could I but come upon a
plot, I might yet proclaim myself an author.