The Blundells of Little Crosby, Lancashire, were long-standing adherents to the Catholic faith; thanks to the copious archival remains that they left behind them, now mostly held by Lancashire Record Office, they have often figured in recusant history. The current study's use of this family archive recalls a distinguished recent book dealing with an earlier period, Michael Questier's Catholicism and community in early modern England, which exploits the papers generated by the Brownes of Cowdray; both have a focused richness, both recreate social milieux in a way that opens up the venerable pursuit of family history, transcending the genealogical and parochial. It is no coincidence that this type of study has proved so fruitful in the case of early modern Catholic dynasties: the reconstruction of networks, always absorbing, can be positively revelatory when their operators are furthering a proscribed faith. The central figure in Geoff Baker's book is William Blundell (1620–98), sometimes known as ‘the Cavalier’ to distinguish him from other members of the family with the same name. He is the one whom posterity has tended to remember best; predecessors of the current study include two edited volumes of his writing, T. E. Gibson's Crosby records (1880) and Margaret Blundell's Cavalier (1933). Baker's book, though, constitutes by far the most exhaustive consideration of Blundell's career. Throughout, he comes over as an engaging personality, energetic in the practical promotion of Catholicism. Much work on post-Reformation English Catholic history in the past few decades has been concerned to redress a perceived bias towards the clerisy and members of the religious orders, and this book, essential reading for all those studying the activity of lay Catholics in mid- and late seventeenth-century England, can be seen as part of the trend. Few fathers of the time, from either side of the religious divide, can have been so deeply preoccupied with parenting as Blundell; whether he was shelving his library to encourage the younger members of his family to read devotional books and shun controversy, or writing to negotiate favourable portions for daughters entering the religious life, Blundell's activity was dictated both by his faith and his position at the head of a large family. But he still found time to be an advocate for his coreligionists in local politics, intervene in national debates about the penal laws and keep abreast of current literature and thought. Intellectually curious enough to be stimulated by the new science, he researched instances of monstrosity and deformity in a way that, more often than not, shows the application of Bacon's inductive method, recording the facts rather than speculating about the causes or reaching for a providentialist explanation. In this as in other spheres, researchers into early modern reading practices should be grateful for Blundell's obliging tendency to record his responses to books. He was neither an original nor a nuanced thinker – his other duties can hardly have given him time – but it is, precisely, his ordinariness that makes him interesting.