It had been agreed between my friend Mr. C. and me, that before I left England, we should make an excursion together to Stonehenge, which neither of us had seen; and the project pleased my fancy with the double attraction of the monument and the companion. It seemed a bringing together of extreme points, to visit the oldest religious monument in Britain, in company with her latest thinker, and one whose influence may be traced in every contemporary book. I was glad to sum up a little my experiences, and to exchange a few reasonable words on the aspects of England, with a man on whose genius I set a very high value, and who had as much penetration2, and as severe a theory of duty, as any person in it. On Friday, 7th July, we took the South Western Railway through Hampshire to Salisbury, where we found a carriage to convey us to Amesbury. The fine weather and my friend’s local knowledge of Hampshire, in which he is wont3 to spend a part of every summer, made the way short. There was much to say, too, of the travelling Americans, and their usual objects in London. I thought it natural, that they should give some time to works of art collected here, which they cannot find at home, and a little to scientific clubs and museums, which, at this moment, make London very attractive. But my philosopher was not contented4. Art and ‘high art’ is a favorite target for his wit. “Yes, Kunst is a great delusion5, and Goethe and Schiller wasted a great deal of good time on it:” — and he thinks he discovers that old Goethe found this out, and, in his later writings, changed his tone. As soon as men begin to talk of art, architecture, and antiquities6, nothing good comes of it. He wishes to go through the British Museum in silence, and thinks a sincere man will see something, and say nothing. In these days, he thought, it would become an architect to consult only the grim necessity, and say, ‘I can build you a coffin7 for such dead persons as you are, and for such dead purposes as you have, but you shall have no ornament8.’ For the science, he had, if possible, even less tolerance9, and compared the savans of Somerset House to the boy who asked Confucius “how many stars in the sky?” Confucius replied, “he minded things near him:” then said the boy, “how many hairs are there in your eyebrows10?” Confucius said, “he didn’t know and didn’t care.”
Still speaking of the Americans, C. complained that they dislike the coldness and exclusiveness of the English, and run away to France, and go with their countrymen, and are amused, instead of manfully staying in London, and confronting Englishmen, and acquiring their culture, who really have much to teach them.
I told C. that I was easily dazzled, and was accustomed to concede readily all that an Englishman would ask; I saw everywhere in the country proofs of sense and spirit, and success of every sort: I like the people: they are as good as they are handsome; they have everything, and can do everything: but meantime, I surely know, that, as soon as I return to Massachusetts, I shall lapse12 at once into the feeling, which the geography of America inevitably13 inspires, that we play the game with immense advantage; that there and not here is the seat and centre of the British race; and that no skill or activity can long compete with the prodigious15 natural advantages of that country, in the hands of the same race; and that England, an old and exhausted16 island, must one day be contented, like other parents, to be strong only in her children. But this was a proposition which no Englishman of whatever condition can easily entertain.
We left the train at Salisbury, and took a carriage to Amesbury, passing by Old Sarum, a bare, treeless hill, once containing the town which sent two members to Parliament, — now, not a hut; — and, arriving at Amesbury, stopped at the George Inn. After dinner, we walked to Salisbury Plain. On the broad downs, under the gray sky, not a house was visible, nothing but Stonehenge, which looked like a group of brown dwarfs17 in the wide expanse, — Stonehenge and the barrows, — which rose like green bosses about the plain, and a few hayricks. On the top of a mountain, the old temple would not be more impressive. Far and wide a few shepherds with their flocks sprinkled the plain, and a bagman drove along the road. It looked as if the wide margin18 given in this crowded isle19 to this primeval temple were accorded by the veneration20 of the British race to the old egg out of which all their ecclesiastical structures and history had proceeded. Stonehenge is a circular colonnade21 with a diameter of a hundred feet, and enclosing a second and a third colonnade within. We walked round the stones, and clambered over them, to wont ourselves with their strange aspect and groupings, and found a nook sheltered from the wind among them, where C. lighted his cigar. It was pleasant to see, that, just this simplest of all simple structures, — two upright stones and a lintel laid across, — had long outstood all later churches, and all history, and were like what is most permanent on the face of the planet: these, and the barrows, — mere22 mounds23, (of which there are a hundred and sixty within a circle of three miles about Stonehenge,) like the same mound24 on the plain of Troy, which still makes good to the passing mariner25 on Hellespont, the vaunt of Homer and the fame of Achilles. Within the enclosure, grow buttercups, nettles26, and, all around, wild thyme, daisy, meadowsweet, goldenrod, thistle, and the carpeting grass. Over us, larks27 were soaring and singing, — as my friend said, “the larks which were hatched last year, and the wind which was hatched many thousand years ago.” We counted and measured by paces the biggest stones, and soon knew as much as any man can suddenly know of the inscrutable temple. There are ninety-four stones, and there were once probably one hundred and sixty. The temple is circular, and uncovered, and the situation fixed28 astronomically29, — the grand entrances here, and at Abury, being placed exactly northeast, “as all the gates of the old cavern31 temples are.” How came the stones here? for these sarsens or Druidical sandstones, are not found in this neighborhood. The sacrificial stone, as it is called, is the only one in all these blocks, that can resist the action of fire, and as I read in the books, must have been brought one hundred and fifty miles.
On almost every stone we found the marks of the mineralogist’s hammer and chisel32. The nineteen smaller stones of the inner circle are of granite33. I, who had just come from Professor Sedgwick’s Cambridge Museum of megatheria and mastodons, was ready to maintain that some cleverer elephants or mylodonta had borne off and laid these rocks one on another. Only the good beasts must have known how to cut a well-wrought tenon and mortise, and to smooth the surface of some of the stones. The chief mystery is, that any mystery should have been allowed to settle on so remarkable34 a monument, in a country on which all the muses35 have kept their eyes now for eighteen hundred years. We are not yet too late to learn much more than is known of this structure. Some diligent36 Fellowes or Layard will arrive, stone by stone, at the whole history, by that exhaustive British sense and perseverance37, so whimsical in its choice of objects, which leaves its own Stonehenge or Choir38 Gaur to the rabbits, whilst it opens pyramids, and uncovers Nineveh. Stonehenge, in virtue39 of the simplicity40 of its plan, and its good preservation41, is as if new and recent; and, a thousand years hence, men will thank this age for the accurate history it will yet eliminate. We walked in and out, and took again and again a fresh look at the uncanny stones. The old sphinx put our petty differences of nationality out of sight. To these conscious stones we two pilgrims were alike known and near. We could equally well revere42 their old British meaning. My philosopher was subdued43 and gentle. In this quiet house of destiny, he happened to say, “I plant cypresses44 wherever I go, and if I am in search of pain, I cannot go wrong.” The spot, the gray blocks, and their rude order, which refuses to be disposed of, suggested to him the flight of ages, and the succession of religions. The old times of England impress C. much: he reads little, he says, in these last years, but “Acta Sanctorum,” the fifty-three volumes of which are in the “London Library.” He finds all English history therein. He can see, as he reads, the old saint of Iona sitting there, and writing, a man to men. The Acta Sanctorum show plainly that the men of those times believed in God, and in the immortality45 of the soul, as their abbeys and cathedrals testify: now, even the puritanism is all gone. London is pagan. He fancied that greater men had lived in England, than any of her writers; and, in fact, about the time when those writers appeared, the last of these were already gone.
We left the mound in the twilight46, with the design to return the next morning, and coming back two miles to our inn, we were met by little showers, and late as it was, men and women were out attempting to protect their spread wind-rows. The grass grows rank and dark in the showery England. At the inn, there was only milk for one cup of tea. When we called for more, the girl brought us three drops. My friend was annoyed who stood for the credit of an English inn, and still more, the next morning, by the dog-cart, sole procurable47 vehicle, in which we were to be sent to Wilton. I engaged the local antiquary, Mr. Brown, to go with us to Stonehenge, on our way, and show us what he knew of the “astronomical30” and “sacrificial” stones. I stood on the last, and he pointed48 to the upright, or rather, inclined stone, called the “astronomical,” and bade me notice that its top ranged with the sky-line. “Yes.” Very well. Now, at the summer solstice, the sun rises exactly over the top of that stone, and, at the Druidical temple at Abury, there is also an astronomical stone, in the same relative positions.
In the silence of tradition, this one relation to science becomes an important clue; but we were content to leave the problem, with the rocks. Was this the “Giants’ Dance” which Merlin brought from Killaraus, in Ireland, to be Uther Pendragon’s monument to the British nobles whom Hengist slaughtered49 here, as Geoffrey of Monmouth relates? or was it a Roman work, as Inigo Jones explained to King James; or identical in design and style with the East Indian temples of the sun; as Davies in the Celtic Researches maintains? Of all the writers, Stukeley is the best. The heroic antiquary, charmed with the geometric perfections of his ruin, connects it with the oldest monuments and religion of the world, and with the courage of his tribe, does not stick to say, “the Deity50 who made the world by the scheme of Stonehenge.” He finds that the cursus 24 on Salisbury Plain stretches across the downs, like a line of latitude51 upon the globe, and the meridian52 line of Stonehenge passes exactly through the middle of this cursus. But here is the high point of the theory: the Druids had the magnet; laid their courses by it; their cardinal53 points in Stonehenge, Ambresbury, and elsewhere, which vary a little from true east and west, followed the variations of the compass. The Druids were Ph;oenicians. The name of the magnet is lapis Heracleus, and Hercules was the god of the Phoenicians. Hercules, in the legend, drew his bow at the sun, and the sun-god gave him a golden cup, with which he sailed over the ocean. What was this, but a compass-box? This cup or little boat, in which the magnet was made to float on water, and so show the north, was probably its first form, before it was suspended on a pin. But science was an arcanum, and, as Britain was a Ph;oenician secret, so they kept their compass a secret, and it was lost with the Tyrian commerce. The golden fleece, again, of Jason, was the compass, — a bit of loadstone, easily supposed to be the only one in the world, and therefore naturally awakening54 the cupidity55 and ambition of the young heroes of a maritime56 nation to join in an expedition to obtain possession of this wise stone. Hence the fable57 that the ship Argo was loquacious58 and oracular. There is also some curious coincidence in the names. Apollodorus makes Magnes the son of Aeolus, who married Nais. On hints like these, Stukeley builds again the grand colonnade into historic harmony, and computing59 backward by the known variations of the compass, bravely assigns the year 406 before Christ, for the date of the temple.
24 Connected with Stonehenge are an avenue and a cursus. The avenue is a narrow road of raised earth, extending 594 yards in a straight line from the grand entrance, then dividing into two branches, which lead, severally, to a row of barrows; and to the cursus, — an artificially formed flat tract1 of ground. This is half a mile northeast from Stonehenge, bounded by banks and ditches, 3036 yards long, by 110 broad.
For the difficulty of handling and carrying stones of this size, the like is done in all cities, every day, with no other aid than horse power. I chanced to see a year ago men at work on the substructure of a house in Bowdoin Square, in Boston, swinging a block of granite of the size of the largest of the Stonehenge columns with an ordinary derrick. The men were common masons, with paddies to help, nor did they think they were doing anything remarkable. I suppose, there were as good men a thousand years ago. And we wonder how Stonehenge was built and forgotten. After spending half an hour on the spot, we set forth60 in our dog-cart over the downs for Wilton, C. not suppressing some threats and evil omens61 on the proprietors62, for keeping these broad plains a wretched sheep-walk, when so many thousands of English men were hungry and wanted labor63. But I heard afterwards that it is not an economy to cultivate this land, which only yields one crop on being broken up and is then spoiled.
We came to Wilton and to Wilton Hall, — the renowned64 seat of the Earls of Pembroke, a house known to Shakspeare and Massinger, the frequent home of Sir Philip Sidney where he wrote the Arcadia; where he conversed65 with Lord Brooke, a man of deep thought, and a poet, who caused to be engraved66 on his tombstone, “Here lies Fulke Greville Lord Brooke, the friend of Sir Philip Sidney.” It is now the property of the Earl of Pembroke, and the residence of his brother, Sidney Herbert, Esq., and is esteemed67 a noble specimen68 of the English manor-hall. My friend had a letter from Mr. Herbert to his housekeeper69, and the house was shown. The state drawing-room is a double cube, 30 feet high, by 30 feet wide, by 60 feet long: the adjoining room is a single cube, of 30 feet every way. Although these apartments and the long library were full of good family portraits, Vandykes and other; and though there were some good pictures, and a quadrangle cloister70 full of antique and modern statuary, — to which C., catalogue in hand, did all too much justice, — yet the eye was still drawn71 to the windows, to a magnificent lawn, on which grew the finest cedars72 in England. I had not seen more charming grounds. We went out, and walked over the estate. We crossed a bridge built by Inigo Jones over a stream, of which the gardener did not know the name, (Qu. Alph?) watched the deer; climbed to the lonely sculptured summer house, on a hill backed by a wood; came down into the Italian garden, and into a French pavilion, garnished73 with French busts74; and so again, to the house, where we found a table laid for us with bread, meats, peaches, grapes, and wine.
On leaving Wilton House, we took the coach for Salisbury. The Cathedral, which was finished 600 years ago, has even a spruce and modern air, and its spire14 is the highest in England. I know not why, but I had been more struck with one of no fame at Coventry, which rises 300 feet from the ground, with the lightness of a mullein-plant, and not at all implicated75 with the church. Salisbury is now esteemed the culmination76 of the Gothic art in England, as the buttresses77 are fully11 unmasked, and honestly detailed78 from the sides of the pile. The interior of the Cathedral is obstructed79 by the organ in the middle, acting80 like a screen. I know not why in real architecture the hunger of the eye for length of line is so rarely gratified. The rule of art is that a colonnade is more beautiful the longer it is, and that ad infinitum. And the nave81 of a church is seldom so long that it need be divided by a screen.
We loitered in the church, outside the choir, whilst service was said. Whilst we listened to the organ, my friend remarked, the music is good, and yet not quite religious, but somewhat as if a monk82 were panting to some fine Queen of Heaven. C. was unwilling83, and we did not ask to have the choir shown us, but returned to our inn, after seeing another old church of the place. We passed in the train Clarendon Park, but could see little but the edge of a wood, though C. had wished to pay closer attention to the birthplace of the Decrees of Clarendon. At Bishopstoke we stopped, and found Mr. H., who received us in his carriage, and took us to his house at Bishops84 Waltham.
On Sunday, we had much discourse85 on a very rainy day. My friends asked, whether there were any Americans? — any with an American idea, — any theory of the right future of that country? Thus challenged, I bethought myself neither of caucuses86 nor congress, neither of presidents nor of cabinet-ministers, nor of such as would make of America another Europe. I thought only of the simplest and purest minds; I said, ‘Certainly yes; — but those who hold it are fanatics87 of a dream which I should hardly care to relate to your English ears, to which it might be only ridiculous, — and yet it is the only true.’ So I opened the dogma of no-government and non-resistance, and anticipated the objections and the fun, and procured88 a kind of hearing for it. I said, it is true that I have never seen in any country a man of sufficient valor89 to stand for this truth, and yet it is plain to me, that no less valor than this can command my respect. I can easily see the bankruptcy90 of the vulgar musket-worship, — though great men be musket-worshippers; — and ‘tis certain, as God liveth, the gun that does not need another gun, the law of love and justice alone, can effect a clean revolution. I fancied that one or two of my anecdotes91 made some impression on C., and I insisted, that the manifest absurdity92 of the view to English feasibility could make no difference to a gentleman; that as to our secure tenure93 of our mutton-chop and spinage in London or in Boston, the soul might quote Talleyrand, “Monsieur, je n’en vois pas la necessite.” 25 As I had thus taken in the conversation the saint’s part, when dinner was announced, C. refused to go out before me, — “he was altogether too wicked.” I planted my back against the wall, and our host wittily94 rescued us from the dilemma95, by saying, he was the wickedest, and would walk out first, then C. followed, and I went last.
25 “Mais, Monseigneur, il faut que j’existe.”
On the way to Winchester, whither our host accompanied us in the afternoon, my friends asked many questions respecting American landscape, forests, houses, — my house, for example. It is not easy to answer these queries96 well. There I thought, in America, lies nature sleeping, over-growing, almost conscious, too much by half for man in the picture, and so giving a certain tristesse, like the rank vegetation of swamps and forests seen at night, steeped in dews and rains, which it loves; and on it man seems not able to make much impression. There, in that great sloven97 continent, in high Alleghany pastures, in the sea-wide, sky-skirted prairie, still sleeps and murmurs98 and hides the great mother, long since driven away from the trim hedge-rows and over-cultivated garden of England. And, in England, I am quite too sensible of this. Every one is on his good behavior, and must be dressed for dinner at six. So I put off my friends with very inadequate99 details, as best I could.
Just before entering Winchester, we stopped at the Church of Saint Cross, and, after looking through the quaint100 antiquity101, we demanded a piece of bread and a draught102 of beer, which the founder103, Henry de Blois, in 1136, commanded should be given to every one who should ask it at the gate. We had both, from the old couple who take care of the church. Some twenty people, every day, they said, make the same demand. This hospitality of seven hundred years’ standing104 did not hinder C. from pronouncing a malediction105 on the priest who receives 2000 pounds a year, that were meant for the poor, and spends a pittance106 on this small beer and crumbs107.
In the Cathedral, I was gratified, at least by the ample dimensions. The length of line exceeds that of any other English church; being 556 feet by 250 in breadth of transept. I think I prefer this church to all I have seen, except Westminster and York. Here was Canute buried, and here Alfred the Great was crowned and buried, and here the Saxon kings: and, later, in his own church, William of Wykeham. It is very old: part of the crypt into which we went down and saw the Saxon and Norman arches of the old church on which the present stands, was built fourteen or fifteen hundred years ago. Sharon Turner says, “Alfred was buried at Winchester, in the Abbey he had founded there, but his remains108 were removed by Henry I. to the new Abbey in the meadows at Hyde, on the northern quarter of the city, and laid under the high altar. The building was destroyed at the Reformation, and what is left of Alfred’s body now lies covered by modern buildings, or buried in the ruins of the old.” 26 William of Wykeham’s shrine109 tomb was unlocked for us, and C. took hold of the recumbent statue’s marble hands, and patted them affectionately, for he rightly values the brave man who built Windsor, and this Cathedral, and the School here, and New College at Oxford110. But it was growing late in the afternoon. Slowly we left the old house, and parting with our host, we took the train for London.
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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penetration
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wont
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contented
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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coffin
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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eyebrows
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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inevitably
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spire
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prodigious
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exhausted
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dwarfs
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| n.侏儒，矮子（dwarf的复数形式）vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的第三人称单数形式） | |
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margin
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isle
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veneration
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colonnade
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mere
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mounds
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mound
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mariner
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nettles
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larks
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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astronomically
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astronomical
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cavern
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chisel
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granite
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remarkable
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muses
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diligent
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perseverance
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choir
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virtue
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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revere
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| vt.尊崇，崇敬，敬畏 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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cypresses
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| n.柏属植物，柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
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45
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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46
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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47
procurable
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| adj.可得到的，得手的 | |
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48
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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49
slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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51
latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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52
meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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53
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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54
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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cupidity
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| n.贪心，贪财 | |
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56
maritime
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| adj.海的，海事的，航海的，近海的，沿海的 | |
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57
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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58
loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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59
computing
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| n.计算 | |
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60
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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61
omens
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| n.前兆，预兆( omen的名词复数 ) | |
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62
proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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63
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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68
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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69
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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70
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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71
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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76
culmination
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| n.顶点；最高潮 | |
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buttresses
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| n.扶壁，扶垛( buttress的名词复数 )v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的第三人称单数 ) | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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81
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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82
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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83
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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84
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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85
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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caucuses
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| n.（政党决定政策或推举竞选人的）核心成员( caucus的名词复数 )；决策干部；决策委员会；秘密会议 | |
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fanatics
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| 狂热者，入迷者( fanatic的名词复数 ) | |
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88
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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valor
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| n.勇气，英勇 | |
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90
bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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93
tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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94
wittily
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| 机智地，机敏地 | |
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95
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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96
queries
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| n.问题( query的名词复数 )；疑问；询问；问号v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的第三人称单数 )；询问 | |
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97
sloven
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| adj.不修边幅的 | |
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98
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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99
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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100
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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101
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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102
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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103
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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104
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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105
malediction
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| n.诅咒 | |
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106
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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107
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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108
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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109
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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110
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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