Why not China?

Such, were the words addressed to me by a friend I met in Trafalgar Square early in May 1876.

Up to this moment I had never thought of China. My attention had never been directed to it, and my notions regarding it were crude in the extreme: dim ideas of pigtails, eternal plains, and willow trees; vague conceptions of bird's-nest soup and puppy pies. I had never been particularly attracted to the country, and naturally replied, ‘Why should I go to China?’

At the time I gave the matter no further consideration, and it was with some surprise that, a fortnight later, I was met with the same question; this time, however, my friend had some reasons to adduce, the result of which was that, on June 26, a fine breezy morning, I stood on the deck of the Ostend steamer lying in Dover harbour.

A fresh north-easterly breeze just crisped the tops of the waves, and a bright sun lighted up the Dover cliffs as they gradually merged into the mist. For the first time for many days, I had time to think, and when at last the cliffs were lost to view, I seemed to have launched into a new and unknown sea; for whither fate would lead my steps I could not say: all that was definite was, that I was going to Peking.