Welsh Journals

trinity of Pulpit, Platform and Parliament) and R. J. Campbell wrestled deeply with the problems caused by their possibly conflicting roles as preachers, pastors and politicians. The intellectual problems their writings disclose are as relevant to the general theme of the book as the intrigues of R. W. Perks. The motives and aspirations of 'Nonconformists' in politics were, in other words, very diverse and the mere counting of Nonconformist heads in the division lobbies or at election time is less revealing than might be supposed. While the attempt to fit the process of decline into a general thesis concerning 'secularization' is praiseworthy, it is not presented in a very subtle fashion. We need to know much more about what the author considers the general relationship between 'religion' and 'political ideology' to be. Let us hope that he will write more extensively on this matter in future work. KEITH ROBBINS Bangor MY DARLING Pussy. The letters of Lloyd George and Frances Stevenson. Edited by A.J.P. Taylor. Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1975. Pp. xi, 258. £ 5.25. Lloyd George remains for many people the most fascinating and elusive British politician of modern times; Churchill, his twentieth- century compeer in greatness, is, at least by comparison, uncomplicated. Perhaps only Cromwell poses a personal conundrum of equal complexity. Anything, therefore, that contributes to our understanding, in any regard, of Lloyd George is to be welcomed. It has long been known that Lloyd George was a compulsive, life-long womanizer, and a very successful one. The same dynamic personality and irresistible charm (doubtless differently displayed) that kept an army of experienced male politicians in thrall to him for so long proved equally attractive to a succession of women. This volume is the incomplete log- book of his most important liaison. Frances Stevenson, vivacious, intelligent and physically attractive ('an appetising woman', in the words of Beaverbrook, a connoisseur), was Lloyd George's secretary and mistress for over thirty years and, ultimately, his second wife. En route, before the relationship was legalized, Frances bore Lloyd George a daughter, Jennifer-by design not accident, as these letters make clear. Within the terms of their romantic attachment, Frances was a match for her lover: she was as flirtatiously inclined as he, was much younger, and never lacked other admirers. The occasional uncertainty (doubtless induced by a shrewd woman whose pet name, Pussy, conveys not only her lissomeness but also a feline sharpness) almost certainly constrained his natural fickleness and helped to sustain his interest in her. Once the nature of the relationship has been made clear, a great deal of the correspondence is merely repetitive, indeed, all too frequently, to the point of banality. It could scarcely be otherwise: no doubt a lover's endearments gain rather than lose by iteration; indeed, they are the necessary small-change of any romantic transaction. The outsider, however, is soon bored by it all. Moreover, Lloyd George on paper was always a flimsy shadow of his captivating presence; on balance, Frances'