Popular Exhibitions, Science and Showmanship, 1840-1910


Edited by Joe Kember, John Plunkett and Jill A Sullivan, Pickering & Chatto, 2012.

The fourteen papers in this collection originated in a conference, Instruction, Amusement and Spectacle: Popular Shows and Exhibitions 1800-1914, in 2009, itself an output from an AHRC-funded project, Moving and Projected-Image Entertainment in the South-West 1840-1914. Pickering & Chatto have published them in its Science and Culture in the Nineteenth Century series. Together they explore the important nexus of entertainment and popular science in the nineteenth century.

Science-based entertainment was astonishingly popular in the period with all levels of society, mostly occupying the place television later would. Developments in science and technology were seen as exciting, large sections of the population wanted to know how they worked, and canny exhibitors worked hard to stimulate and satisfy the demand. It was a national phenomenon, not one confined to metropolitan centres, and science lectures and shows took place in a wide variety of venues, appealing to men and women of all classes and ages.

The practical element was particularly important, a tradition of demonstration still with us in the shape of the Royal Institution Christmas Lectures which began in 1825. But exposure to science did not only take place in halls, institutes and museums, it entered the home in the shape of educational toys and the popular press. Such pursuits were encouraged by increasing amounts of leisure time, a greater disposable income, and improving public transport, all of which made science increasingly accessible.

These displays were not merely designed to appeal to the intellect as rational recreations; for them to engage popular attention they had to have emotional and aesthetic components able to evoke a range of responses. Education was intertwined with spectacle, the whole comprising a satisfactory package. Even more, the educational rhetoric could be borrowed for less lofty enterprises, such as the freak show, where an emphasis on the sober scientific aspects conferred a sense of respectability, even though rather baser attitudes might also be present among the audience.

Highbrow and lowbrow may have been two ends of a spectrum, but there was an extensive amorphous middle ground where they merged. Skill was required in pitching the presentation: projecting a sense of wonder was perfectly acceptable within bounds, but likely to be dismissed as pointless, or even manipulative, if the scientific ingredients were deemed to be lacking in depth. Treading the line between earnest dullness and superficial flamboyance needed a great deal of care.

The essays focus, as the title suggests, on cultures of performance and exhibition as promoters of scientific and technological knowledge. There has been a great deal of interest in this area in recent years, aided by easier access to rare documentary sources. As is shown here, the enterprise has become increasingly interdisciplinary, drawing on a range of perspectives to integrate scholarship and give a rounded picture of the ways in which popular science seeped into the public consciousness.

The papers are grouped into four sections, though there is much overlap. The first part, Science and Spectacle, looks at the regional dimension of the promotion of science, and at James Wyld’s Great Globe in Leicester Square, a rival attraction to the Crystal Palace in Hyde Park. The chapters in Word and Image discuss how audiences were engaged by verbal techniques as direct support for the visual aspect – in fact the personality and skill of the speaker was often considered more important than the visual element – but also at the popular science literature that formed a mutually-reinforcing knowledge network with shows, and which foregrounded the laudable aim of self-improvement. Included are papers on the Great Exhibition itself, and the intersection of religious, political and scientific discourses in the figure of Daniel William Cahill.

Science itself was in the process of transformation at this time. Not a static body of knowledge, its boundaries were constantly being renegotiated, but it itself was not a homogeneous domain, and different disciplines within it lent themselves more or less favourably to explication. Staging Knowledge examines how scientific exhibitions changed to keep pace with these various boundary changes, both by defining what was inside science, and by attempting to determine what was outside it: talking fish, for example (actually a seal with a very limited vocabulary).

As that example might suggest, hoaxing was frequent. The presentation of such wonders demarcated the science lecturer from the showman, throwing up issues of what counted as evidence for the authenticity of an exhibit. It also highlights the willingness of audiences to collude, sharing the joke and even subverting the hoax, by absorbing whatever instruction was available while discounting the clearly fanciful.

Finally, The Politics of Display considers the political environment and power relations in display, both in terms of the presenter and audience, and audience and objects viewed, as well as the influence of the exotic on presentation. Such displays served to reinforce stereotypes, as well as national identity, stressing England as a colonial centre, able to draw on the resources of its overseas possessions.

The essays cover a huge amount of ground. In general, they are accessible, only occasionally slipping into jargon. Along with the ‘talking fish’, giant globe and the more sedate magic lantern lectures, experiments, conversaziones and exhibitions, there are freak shows, panoramas and dioramas, Egyptian mummies, wrapped and unwrapped (distant in time certainly, though not the “thousands of centuries” claimed), Spiritualist séances (the weakest chapter in the book), the Great Gorilla Controversy of 1861, Zulus brought to London who didn’t appear to know their place, heated international disputes over how dinosaur skeleton casts should be mounted – the authors collectively, and very effectively, demonstrate the many pleasures of combining rational recreation with something a little less elevated.

We Bury our Own, an exhibition of work by Christian Thompson

Christian Thompson, an indigenous Australian artist currently studying for a DPhil at Oxford’s Ruskin School of Drawing and Fine Art, has a small exhibition at the city’s Pitt Rivers Museum. It comprises eight large C-type prints plus a 2-minute video installation, artworks made as a result of his intensive study of the museum’s Australian photographic collection. Despite their formal simplicity, the artist’s ethnicity prompts a variety of responses by the white European to his responses, constituting a thought-provoking loop.

The photographs consist of self-portraits, and in each the inscrutable face is obscured to a greater or lesser extent. It is an oblique comment on the Australian Aboriginal experience, as he has eschewed traditional graphic styles and dress. Given these notable absences, the images achieve their depth only with knowledge of the artist’s background. He is shown in formal western clothing, indicating that while he holds on to his tribal heritage (which must be the “We” of the exhibition’s title) in some manner, he has been ready to adopt at least the outward trappings of his new, if temporary, home. Yet the parodic Oxford student formality, crisp white shirt and white bow tie, is a dry comment on the fustiness of hidebound western civilisation compared to the spiritual freedom of nomadic life.

Covering the eyes is a nod to the idea that they are the window to the soul, and by occluding them, the viewer is denied the opportunity to see into Thompson’s, while he simultaneously refuses to gaze at the representatives of his people’s oppressors. His hidden features symbolise the apparent invisibility of Aborigines historically, yet at the same time, while superficially offering himself up as an ethnographic subject, in taking charge of his presentation he is denying the ability to objectify him. Byrecovering ownership, he has transformed anthropometric scrutiny into art.

There is also a sense of the belief that a photographer is able to steal the subject’s soul, as Aboriginal bodies were once stolen, and that opportunity is now denied. Coming back to European myth, flowers on the eyes evoke coins placed on those of corpses, and the still features suggest the post-mortem photographs that were once popular in Western culture, the effect enhanced by the funereally black jacket and white shirt. Thompson seems dressed for death, yet his optimistic project is to disinter values buried in the archives, and help them to live again, not to weep over them.

The photographs circle round these issues, challenging the viewer to examine his or her attitude to imperialism and the effect it has on those imperialised. The bluntest expression, both in title and content, is Invaded Dreams, in which a model of the Mary Rose, a Union Jack anachronistically flying from the mainmast, conveys, none too subtly, both a sense of colonisation and the fragility of conquest. Similarly, in Down Under World, the most direct reference to Australia of all the titles, and emphasising the European frame of reference (it’s only Down Under if you are here), Thompson is formally dressed but with crystals on his head and over his eyes, ambiguously conveying a sense of healing, but also alluding to disputes over land and mineral rights. He looks rather like a barrister wearing a crystalline wig, throwing up legalistic interpretations of human and property rights.

Gender issues are raised, but always interweaved with wider issues of exploitation and identity. In Forgiveness of Land he is wearing a headscarf, the one glimpse of traditional Aboriginal art, and the viewer half expects to see curlers peeping out. The title poses the questions – whose land, whose forgiveness, and forgiveness for what? If the land is feminine, is Thompson drawing a parallel between the ill-treatment of the soil by whites, and the ill-treatment of Aborigine women by men of all colours? In Lamenting the Flowers the artist has butterflies over his eyes, the print black and white apart from the colour popping of bright blood-red flowers in his hair, his face lent an air of vulnerability by a net veil. The title again refers to the land, the butterflies signify fragility, the flowers and veil femininity, and the veil also mourning. Three Sisters shows him covered with flowers in even greater abundance, three red candles bright in the otherwise monochrome print. The title references a fabricated ‘Aboriginal’ myth, which highlights the issue of cultural authenticity. Desert Melon, the image on the front of the exhibition leaflet, combines black jacket and white bow tie with yellow coin-shaped flowers concealing his eyes, and a paper hat with a picture of a tree: natural and artificial, life and death, complementing each other.

The other photographs are more resistant to interpretation, at least perhaps outside traditional belief systems. Energy Matter shows Thompson standing with his hands over his eyes, backs facing out, black dots on both in a circular pattern, possibly representing unity and integration. Danger Will Come shows only a pair of hands holding a frame, with a flowery border, in which what look like stars, at least sparkly somethings (perhaps the crystals again) can be seen. The video installation, featuring a topless startled-looking and startlingly blue-eyed man singing a repetitive song about family and loss, while hypnotic and poignant, feels out of place alongside the hermetic purity of the photographs.

Unlike physical remains, which are unique, and for which the struggle over ownership is as much about a refusal to be ignored as about regaining relics of ancestors, photographs can exist in multiple copies, held by the creator, or curator, but available to be licensed to anyone. Many photographic collections are being ‘returned’ to indigenous populations in Australia, but the beauty of the photograph is that someone’s gain does not entail another’s loss. Even in the context of the Pitt Rivers Museum, though, the photographs are more than objects of dispassionate study. These beautifully produced images are dreamtime made manifest, and the rather stark corridor, where the loos are sited, becomes a place of meditation and peace. Rich in meaning, they transcend the sterility of grievance and guilt in their embracing of European technology to reflect on the Aboriginal experience. Thompson, with his joint Bidjara and English heritage, seems comfortable in both spheres, ready to move on from the injustices of the past to imagine a better future.



The photographs and video installation are on display in the Pitt Rivers Museum’s Long Gallery, on the ground floor, from 26 June 2012 until 3 January 2013. The exhibition is open 10–4.30 Tuesday to Sunday; 12–4.30 Monday. Admission is free.

Seeking a Friend for the End of the World

Warning: this review contains spoilers

In Lorene Scafaria’s directorial debut, Steve Carell is Dodge, the archetypal dull ordinary schmuck living in New York, an insurance salesman no less. Keira Knightley is Penny, a much younger English neighbour who has relationship issues. They might never have got to know each other if it hadn’t been for an asteroid called Matilda heading Earthwards and promising the destruction of human life (though doubtless not for the cockroaches) in a mere twenty-one days.

To begin with the bigger picture and then move on to the relationship at the heart of this black comedy/satire/road movie/romcom hybrid, does it convince as a faithful depiction of the end times? It is surprising that the electricity stays on for so long, but without it we wouldn’t get the rolling news updates, and Dodge poignantly wouldn’t be able to play Penny’s much-loved vinyl LPs after he thinks he’s lost her. There are riots, though they seem to die down quickly. Perhaps it's all just so pointless. Most individuals are well behaved, if occasionally a little tetchier than usual. They cope with impending disaster in a spectrum of ways: there are hedonistic ones naturally, finding release in drug taking and sex. Others embrace religion, or picnic on the beach. Some kill themselves in despair to put an end to the awful anticipation, or get others to do it to them.

A few act as if nothing is wrong, such as Dodge’s Hispanic cleaner who insists on coming in once a week to vacuum his flat. People have yard sales, or mow the lawn. Some go to work, though in diminishing numbers; even Dodge for a while – ridiculously discussing the purchase of Armageddon cover with a potential customer – until a jumper lands on his windscreen in the car park. Pretending that things are normal retains control in the face of hopelessness, and keep a lid on the bubbling hysteria, though nobody is keen to take on the new vacancy of Chief Finance Officer offered by the unfeasibly optimistic supervisor, even if it does mean more money. Survivalists in their titanium-reinforced bunker, refreshingly depicted as tough black soldiers rather than the stereotypical white rednecks, are happy because they think they are going to inherit the earth as long as they have enough guns and crisps squared away, though they may have forgotten about having to share it with the cockroaches.

These all seem plausible responses, and make you wonder how you would behave in such a situation, knowing that nothing mattered anymore, while social pressures to conform were negligible. The major problem with the film, apart from a weak script with a heavily-contrived narrative that sets up its situations crudely, is the relationship between the two leads. Dodge is stupefyingly dull, albeit partly from the shock of his wife literally running off to be with someone she actually cares about. The most exciting thing about him is his name, though he does loosen up enough to take to drinking cough syrup for a kick, probably the only person over 16 ever to do so. Penny is the sort of kooky, feisty, flaky ‘free spirit’, but hiding a touching vulnerability, so beloved of Hollywood films but who would get up anyone’s nose in real life (she is probably in America after having worn out the patience of every late-twenties male in England). Yet they are thrown together when rioters come a-calling.

Thus the odd couple go on a trip away from burning New York (though fortunately when Dodge gets back his flat is tidy and his cleaner is, as always, just finishing the vacuuming with a cheery “see you next week”). Dodge wants to visit Olivia, an old girlfriend he has only just discovered cares about him, thanks to Penny having held on to his wrongly-delivered post. If only she had given him his letters a bit sooner, he could have contacted Olivia before things went completely tits-up (but really, how was Dodge ever the love of her life?). Meanwhile Penny, distraught at having put selfishness before family all these years, wants to make amends by choosing now, when there are no commercial flights, to go back to Surrey, England, to be with her relatives. Fortunately Dodge knows someone with a light aircraft capable of flying the Atlantic, so they can help each other out, and he can make peace with his estranged father as a bonus. You can see how Dodge and Penny’s relationship is going to end, if not any reason for such a depth of feeling between the pair. Ultimately, the key song missing from the soupy soundtrack is Stephen Stills’s Love the One You’re With.

While the focus is on these two ordinary characters trying to find meaning in absurdity, the film isn’t really about Dodge and Penny. It’s about what people do in extremis, though one that is surely sanitised – would we on the whole be this sane in an insane place? Its message is one not just for the end of the world, but for now: don’t have regrets over things not done, but do what you can in order to give your life meaning while you have time. Whether that is licence to take heroin is debatable, but it is not a bad principle. If the Mayans got it right, the world will come to an end in December 2012, and we will have similar decisions to make, so seize the day. I’m going to draw up a bucket list, immediately.

Baskerville, by John O'Connell

Baskerville, by John O’Connell, Short Books 2012, first published as The Baskerville Legacy, 2011.

The Hound of the Baskervilles was a sensation on its serial publication in the Strand magazine from August 1901 to April 1902, and book publication just as the serialisation concluded. It marked Holmes’s first appearance since he apparently fell over the Reichenbach Falls clutching Professor Moriarty at the climax to ‘The Final Problem’ in 1893, and a nation rejoiced, even if it was a prequel rather than a resurrection. But a mystery surrounds its creation. Credited solely to Arthur Conan Doyle, the elusive figure of Bertram Fletcher Robinson hangs over it.

John O’Connell has taken the uncertainties of the novel’s genesis and woven a factional account using the old conceit of a manuscript hidden away for a century and now published for the first time. Taking what little we know about the collaboration, he has added an elegant, if not particularly thrilling, recreation of their relationship, Robinson rather playing a resentful Watson to Conan Doyle’s high-handed Holmes, spiced up by Robinson’s demons, swigging laudanum and visiting a prostitute (O’Connell says in an afterword that the invention is fanciful and that Robinson was doubtless “solid” and “uncomplicated” in real life).

In the novel, they meet on board a ship returning from South Africa in July 1900, where Conan Doyle had volunteered his services as a surgeon at Bloemfontein and Robinson had been covering the conflict for the Daily Express, of which he was about to become Editor. The two strike up a friendship, and Conan Doyle suggests that they work together on a “real creeper”. These shipboard scenes are the most vivid in the book.

The pair holidayed together at Cromer in Norfolk in 1901, where folkloric accounts of Black Shuck became the germ of the hound (in the novel Robinson decides it should be a wolf, but Conan Doyle is not convinced). They then visited Dartmoor, Robinson’s home turf, an area with its own tradition of Wish or Wisht Hounds. In the book their relationship reaches a crisis at Princetown from which it never recovers, though in real life Robinson merely claimed that “One of the most interesting weeks that I ever spent was with Doyle on Dartmoor”, and, the two played golf together later.

If Robinson stretches credulity, Conan Doyle comes over as entirely plausible, a charming, sunny and genial what-you-see-is-what-you-get clubbable type of soul, but expecting to get his own way (his poor treatment of his children by his first wife Touie after his marriage to Jean gives a flavour of his hard streak). That is, he is plausible until they get to the moor, when the atmosphere, like the weather, gets darker, and Conan Doyle shows a surprising side to his character. The problem is of course that we are seeing him through Robinson’s eyes, and he is hardly a reliable narrator.

The intriguing twist is that Conan Doyle does not want Robinson for his plots but for his clout as a newspaper man able to promote Conan Doyle’s obsession, Spiritualism. It is ironic that in pursuit of The New Revelation he is willing to commit what he would see as a pious fraud, others as something less honourable, using the real-life medium Madame d’Esperance. They tell Robinson that he is psychic, but the alleged spirit communication it transpires is a hoax; yet in one of the feverish dreams that Robinson suffers he appears to witness the force-feeding of a suffragette, suggesting that he actually does have psychic abilities.

The novel has a playful side, and O’Connell is not afraid to slip in anachronisms. Sometimes they are acknowledged, such as Robinson’s fiancé’s backstory as a suffragette (a term not coined until1906), which O’Connell discusses in his afterword; and sometimes they are not, such as the line “science annihilates distance, someone one said”. They did, but not yet, it’s a line from Brideshead Revisited (1945) – perhaps it’s an indication of Robinson’s precognitive ability. Baskerville is a curious title because although Harry Baskerville, the Robinson family coachman, appears briefly, he is not the significant character the title promises. But, playfully, there is an epigraph from Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose, the main character in which is William of Baskerville, itself harking back to Conan Doyle. And what font have Short Books used? Yes, of course: Baskerville.

An obvious question is why such a successful author would want a collaborator. Robinson was not well known, and had a background in journalism, not fiction (though of course the two do possess similarities). Perhaps Conan Doyle’s inspiration was flagging and he needed Robinson’s stimulus to help with the story outline and some local colour, which he was then perfectly able to work up into a gripping narrative without assistance. There were certainly affinities between them, Andrew Lycett in his biography of Conan Doyle referring to Robinson as “a chip off the Conan Doyle block”. Their interest in sport would have been a strong element of their friendship, and both shared a love of adventure and detective stories, though Robinson’s creation Addington Peace is not quite at the Sherlock Holmes level in terms of familiarity.

We do not know why Robinson dropped out of the venture, and the extent of his contribution. Likewise, his initial expectations of what the partnership would entail are unclear. Perhaps he was not happy that it was to be another Holmes story. It could have been pressure of work, as indicated in O’Connell’s afterword. Herbert Greenhough Smith, editor of the Strand, may have been unhappy at the thought of having Robinson’s name on the story. Bearing in mind that Conan Doyle probably did write the whole book as published, Robinson was paid well, yet may have felt that he deserved more recognition than Conan Doyle paid in public.

Robinson died of typhoid in 1907, and O’Connell implies that his early death at the age of 36 was caused by his involvement in publicising an allegedly cursed Egyptian mummy lid acquired by the British Museum, which he had done in 1904. Conan Doyle himself thought that these were murky waters, having warned Robinson not to involve himself with the business; he considered that typhoid was the sort of method a curse might employ. At least there is nothing here about the preposterous theory that Conan Doyle poisoned Robinson in order to shut him up trying to take credit for The Hound of the Baskervilles.

This isn’t the first time that Conan Doyle has appeared as a character in a novel, and comparisons are inevitably drawn with Julian Barnes’s Arthur and George. That work’s solid achievement rather shows up the slightness of Baskerville, but O’Connell gives us an entertaining read, and brings Bertram Fletcher Robinson out from Doyle’s very broad shadow, even if it probably distorts what little we know about him in the process. Anyway, I was pleased to see the Plume of Feathers at Princetown mentioned, albeit briefly, as a relative of mine runs it.

Supernatural Cumbria, by H C Ivison, and Paranormal Cumbria, by Geoff Holder

Given their extensive range of titles on paranormal Britain, it is not surprising that Amberley Publishing and the History Press have produced volumes with similar geographical coverage. The two here are directly comparable, allowing the literary equivalent of a ‘Battle of the Bands’. Should the purchaser wanting to know more of this region’s paranormal heritage buy both, or will one – or perhaps even neither – do?

Supernatural Cumbria, by Helen Ivison, is the earlier book. Its advantage is that it is written by a local historian who has long experience of the area’s legends and has easy access to the paranormal grapevine. It is reasonably well organised, with a mix of thematic and geographic chapters. While there isn’t an index of locations, it is easy enough to skim down the contents pages to find a particular place. The style is very readable but the text is full of spelling errors, which let it down and suggest that editing was minimal.

It contains a typical mixture of recent ghostly accounts, usually unattributed, and older folkloric stories, boggles and brownies for example. Significant localities have their own chapters. Slightly more unusual are a couple of vampires – Croglin Grange, of course, plus another at Workington – a timeslip and golden coffin stories. The Souter Fell ghost army has a brief chapter: Peter McCue and Alan Gauld wrote a significant paper which included this case, ‘Edgehill And Souter Fell: A Critical Examination of Two English “Phantom Army” Cases’, in The Society for Psychical Research’s Journal of April 2005, but Ivison does not refer to it.

Unlike Ivison, Perth-based Geoff Holder is not local to Cumbria, but he is a professional writer with long experience of producing regional paranormal gazetteers. Paranormal Cumbria has fewer pages than Supernatural Cumbria, but more words per page, so they are roughly comparable in length. It is a follow-up to Holder’s The Guide to the Mysterious Lake District (2009), though with completely new material. The contents, conveyed in his usual humorously perceptive style, are arranged thematically, but a map at the front shows where the places mentioned are, and there is an index, not that common in this type of book, to allow places to be found easily.

The other obvious difference between this and Ivison’s effort is that Holder has undertaken more archival work, delving back where possible to the sources and examining secondary layers that may have accumulated errors. He supplies references for all his stories, the result of which is a three-page bibliography of books, journals and newspapers that allows readers to double-check for themselves. This rigorous analytical approach is rare in the field, and all the more welcome for it. He does not use Ivison, though he must have been aware of her book given the amount of research he has done.

The usual suspects, psychic abilities and witches, for example, are present, but Holder takes a more Fortean approach than Ivison, with an analysis of the various types of fairies and kindred creatures that may be found in the area; lake monsters and alien big cats; an amusing overview of the bizarre controversy which followed the installation in an ex-underpass of the Cursing Stone of Carlisle, a large lump of granite; and ending up with a look at the Solway Spaceman (a more thorough treatment of the history of this strange photograph can be found in an article by Andy Roberts and David Clarke, ‘Farewell to the Solway Spaceman?’, in the April 2012 issue of Fortean Times). Souter Fell does not appear as it was included in the earlier Lake District book.

Obviously there are some areas of overlap between Supernatural and Paranormal, and these are instructive. Thus the Croglin Grange vampire appears in both, but whereas Ivison gives it half a page and repeats the bare bones, Holder delves into the various accounts as they evolved from the first reference in print by Augustus Hare, showing what a complex narrative it actually is. Both discuss a witch called Mary Baynes who lived at Tebay, but Ivison gives the story without any sources, whereas Holder does.

As expected, both books are nicely produced. Supernatural Cumbria is well illustrated, mostly with the author’s photographs, though a number show the same scene from different angles, which seems redundant. Paranormal Cumbria too is generously illustrated, but as well as the author’s own photographs he has included archival material, which makes it visually more attractive as they not just a series of snapshots illustrating the places referred to in the text.

The Amberley offering is entertaining, but its lack of references and ‘friend of a friend’ reliance limits its use to a casual read. If this is what the reader requires, then Amberley has delivered a book that will be of use to anyone keen to find out about the darker side of Cumbria’s beauty. Holder has more historical material, well referenced, but fewer recent stories than Ivison was able to gather through local contacts. Ivison does have ghost stories, Holder none in this volume, so if that is the primary interest then Ivison’s is the one to purchase. She is though often frustratingly vague on detail, and it is fair to say that her book provides spread but not depth, and Holder’s, with a different though overlapping focus, provides spread and depth.

To sum up, the resident of Cumbria may well want both (plus Holder’s Lake District book) in order to ensure that they have maximum coverage of the county. But the visitor who does not want to purchase both will be better off with Holder’s book. And it’s three quid cheaper. I therefore declare Paranormal Cumbria the winner.


Supernatural Cumbria, by H C Ivison. Amberley Publishing, October 2010. ISBN 9781848689091

Paranormal Cumbria, by Geoff Holder. The History Press, March 2012. ISBN 9780752454122