UNPUBLISHED TYPESCIPTS
Roy S Porter. ‘Billy Budd’. Review of school play. The Wilsonian, July 1962: 17-19.
‘… Billy Budd is a comparatively modern play with an interesting subject posing intriguing
problems concerning the characters of men and their ideas of justice. Naturally enough the
production of such a play involves materially different problems from the production of a play
which is concerned mainly with a central story without any great accent on human problems
… A play such as this, involving fierce arguments and heated sentiments depends for its
success very much on the quality of the acting … Therefore, at first, it seemed totally
damaging for the play when Terry Edwards, who was to play Billy Budd, broke a leg some
time before the first performance … However this unfortunate accident served only to
heighten the sentiment felt by the audience for the hero and to make the decision of the
court a terrible crime … Taking the performance as a whole I found that it left a favourable
impression upon me after I had seen it. Perhaps this was due to very efficient production to
quite a large extent. In general the acting was good, and the curtain-pulling and scenechanging were excellent, the result of many long hours of rehearsal no doubt … It cannot be
denied that the use of a little imagination in the choice of play for a school presentation can
have a great effect for good on the enjoyment of it by everybody.’
Roy Porter. ‘Splitting the infinitive’. The Wilsonian, December 1962: 29-30. Extract from an
article in Roy’s school magazine.
‘… Dispel that naïve idea that English masters check pupils’ books out of interest for their
work; no, under the intense glare of powerful reading-lamps they scrutinise them through
strong magnifying glasses for the cruel pleasure they derive from underlining at least five
times in the reddest of red inks that ominous gap between the “to” and the unconjugated part
of the verb, which some paltry adjective usually fills … Often have I inserted a ‘not’ or some
other insignificant word in that sacred space for the sheer devilry of it, knowing full well the
gravity of my offence, but always the eagle-eyed Sherlock Holmes has spotted it … History
masters are too interested in the political motives to bother about infinitives; Geography
teachers prefer to point out, wearily or angrily, that Mississippi has four “s’s”; but English
masters never relent …’
Roy Porter. ‘Porter’s characters’. North Wales 1962. Extracts from a book compiled by
boys from Wilson’s School who attended a summer camp in North Wales, July/August 1962.
‘… Gordon Thorne: Gordon is a born worrier both at school and also – even more so – at
camp. I will not go into details but after a fortnight of sharing a tent with him I became so
infected by his ways that I even started to take imaginary cockroaches out of my sleepingbag.
Messrs Horn, Prentice and Burbridge: Mr Horn is one of those infuriating people who don’t
call bits of string, bits of string. They are ‘painters’ while he’s around. But don’t call Mr
Prentice’s bits of string ‘painters’. They are ‘lines’. In Mr Burbridge’s presence, on the other
hand, ‘lines’ are ‘guy ropes’. All very perplexing! Still, keep smart, chaps, while he’s around
and don’t be ‘slack’ guys …
Mr Sollis: A worried man. He spent most of his time on the holiday with seven figure logtables trying to get an extra mile per gallon, first out of his car and then out of his pony.’
Roy Porter. ‘A sudden slip!. North Wales, 1962.
‘”Group Three will tidy up the wet-pit”. Hooray, the easiest job in camp! … Thus I bent to
pick up the greasy ferns of yesterday, thinking of more important things – … the view from
the top of Cader, the canoeing we would be doing in a few days, Sunday’s excursion into
Barmouth, cream doughnuts, … when to my horror I found that the foot I had so firmly
234
planted on a stable slate was not firmly planted … Feeling rather like the fisherman in Poe’s
story of the Maelstrom, I awaited the inevitable, a fate worse than death in the clutches of
the two feet six of water containing all the dirt that had come off forty dirty bodies this
morning and all the grease and lumps of porage [sic] from eight breakfast plates … Friends
approached me and whispered things about Lifeboy [sic] Toilet Soap in my ear. From
henceforth, I was not able to raise my head high in the highest circles of camp life: the
Scrabblers Club and Tent Six all-in wrestlers. However, I had the last laugh: as recompense
for the enormous amount of fun I had inadvertently given them, my group relieved me of all
duties concerning the wet-pit from then on.’
Roy Porter. ‘Rosy’s diary’. North Wales, 1962. Roy’s nickname at school was ‘Rosey’ –
from his names, “Roy Sidney”.
‘…Thursday, July 19th
Base camp duties for the first time: A bathful of muddy, odd-shaped greenish potatoes to
peel, half a sackful of carrots to cut up and a hundred and one other things including the
fetching of the milk, the clearing of the litter and the running of errands. Still, by working
hard, we were able to gain a free afternoon to recover from the exertions of the previous
days and to explore the grand old tourist attraction of a two-storey six house village called
Arthog. That night we enjoyed what was by far the most enjoyable meal that we had tasted
up to then. I wonder why? …
… Sunday, July 22nd
… On a dull day, camp life can be depressing, but even camp has got nothing on a Welsh
holiday resort on a Sunday. We wandered glumly from the amusement arcade where “The
Playing of ye Olde Juke Box on Sundays is strictly forbidden” to the rows of closed shops,
and when the rain started to fall again, we soon had our return twopenceworth over the toll
bridge and came home …
… Wednesday, July 25th
We polluted the stream with our dirt and soapy lather and then stewed up some porridge.
Then, after washing up, a stiff fifteen minutes walk brought us to the rock face we were
about to ascend. At last it came to my turn, and, spurred on more by a large hornet which
was pestering us than by anything else, I started the longish climb. Half way up I came to
the conclusion that I could not go up any further, nor could I descend, and so, after a while, I
was gently lowered down to the bottom by Mr Prentice …
… Thursday, July 26th
For the first hour of our only whole day pony trek, my faithful friend barely raised a swift walk.
However, it did not reckon with the fact that I had studied horse psychology. You see, I told
him in plain horse language that the faster he went, the sooner we’d get to wherever we
were going and the sooner he’d have my weight off his back. He had horse sense, and it
worked a charm – only too well at first because the intelligent critter thought it better to have
all my weight off at once …’
Roy Porter. ‘Photography project group’. North Wales 1963: 7-8. Extracts from a book
compiled by boys from Wilson’s School who attended a summer camp in North Wales,
July/August 1963.
‘...If you intend your stay at camp to be a holiday, never never even think of contemplating
the possibility of suggesting, however tentatively, history, even at third choice, or it’s ten to
one you’ll find yourself peering around in the pouring rain up to your eyes in a bog miles off
any track even of the beaten variety for a non-existent Roman camp (which probably looks
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just like ours anyway) ... No, join the photography group, and you can laze around with a
clear conscience! If you are approached by an irate master who wonders why the hell you’re
the only person on the camp not working, you can sweetly answer that you’re waiting for that
surprise candid shot to come about (eg. someone’s trousers to be flown at half mast) or that
the weather conditions are not suitable (too sunny, clear, dull, hazy, wet, bright or any
permutation at 2d per line) or even, if you are feeling insolent, that you’ve run out of film ...
enlargements provide the photographer with an excuse for shutting himself up during the
holidays in that impregnable bastion, the unassailable castle of chaos and stinks, the
darkroom wherein the experienced worker (grade I diploma) can be safe from unwelcome
friends and relatives until the ravages of hunger drive him out. There, if nowhere else, he
can listen to Mrs Dale’s Diary in peace.’
‘Rose’ Porter. ‘The unexploded?’ North Wales 1963: 26.
‘Date: Sunday 28th July [1963]: Project Day.
Scene: The rough ground near Mr Burbridge’s tent.
Up pops the head of one of the more junior members of the Biology project group, hunting
for specimens among the bracken. “Look what I’ve found”, he exclaims and holds high in
the air the object of his attentions. It is a roughly circular object, a few inches in diameter,
red in colour, heavy, with a slight ridge running round its entire circumference. He calls in Mr
Prentice to examine the specimen. He confers with Mr Edwards and comes to the
conclusion that the thing is a rare, dense variety of beetroot, “beetus, rootus, rarus
densus”...’
‘Rose’ Porter. ‘Mr Sollis: Procrastination is his one redeeming virtue’. North Wales 1963:
55-57.
‘ … Monday, July 15th, date of departure for the advance party to Wales. The four members
whereof who were to travel by train (for the purpose of transporting four monstrous hampers
containing dozens of tents, hundreds of billies, two pairs of wellies and one butterfuly net on
the cheap as “personal luggage” and about the same number of huge boxes of the thickest
and heaviest boxes that Bob Moy (bless him) could find, were to meet at the school at nine
… for the 11.10 train from Paddington. They were all there at that fateful hour, of course, but
mirabile dictum and surprise of surprises, there was no sign of need-I-say whom. 5, 10, 15,
20, 25, half past, ah! Is this a blue utilabrake thundering down Wilson Road? The occupant
emergeth, brushes aside all protestations and strides Common Roomwards. Another half
hour passes – there is still just enough time if we pack luggage and crates inside
immediately and tear off at half the speed of light – and then Mr Sollis condescends to
reappear after, presumably in character, having given 3A a round of circuit training, marking
all the first form end of term exam papers, filling in the Jephson set II register for the last
three months, writing 95 reports, reading the Times Educational Supplement and setting
2A’s homework. 10.5 am, we beg him to load up immediately and drive like a maniac (no
comment!). “Load up?” quoth he, “You (!) haven’t packed the hampers yet, boys!” …’
‘Rose’ Porter. ‘Group II expedition’. North Wales 1963: 83-84.
‘Though I had not exactly seen myself quite in the role of a latter day Moses (I’m sure Moses
had someone to carry his pack for him), leading my people, well, the rabble of Group II from
the land of domination, Fegla Fach, unto a country flowing with milk and honey, which most
certainly is not North Wales … Dawn and camp broke, with the leader resolved not to be led
astray by farmers’ wives again. Unfortunately the road which we took from the farm wound
almost on top of itself up a mountain. At last we came across a couple of workers who
hastily put their cards away on our approach. They informed us in pidgin English that the
road led to a slate quarry and that blasting was in progress. After considerable wandering,
we found ourselves in the middle of a forestry commission plantation. Dejected, I explained
to my men the position: “We’ve got to meet Mr Sollis at the Cross Foxes pub …” Well, I’ve
never seen that group move so fast. One sniff, and they were off over the hills, through
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dales, across forests, following their noses and imaginations. The destination was reached
in good time (ie. well before it shut) and thus we ended our expedition, happy (if a little
footsore).’
‘Rose’ Porter. ‘Imagination after seeing a party canoeing at night’. North Wales 1963: 96.
‘In vales of West Wales, hard by mist-becapp’d hills,
Under Cader’s cloud shrouded height
Near Barmouth, Abermawddach, with treacherous tides.
When the moon half obscured, the deep valley fills
With her sharp, yet indefinite light
A canoe silently glides …’
Roy S Porter. ‘Ode on a Welsh nut’. The Wilsonian, December 1963: 59.
‘How I’m glad I am a coalman now that winter’s here,
When householders want tons of fuel, and coal is dear,
When smokeless fuel’s in great demand
And coke is needed all through the land
To warm the buyer’s frozen hand
And melt his beer.
As I deliver each short weight sack
Of wet and dirty slate and slack
To householders, who, on their knees
Bid for it, à la Southeby’s
I pray for months and months of freeze
And bless the day the snow came back.’
Rosey Porter. ‘The element of danger’. North Wales 1964: 7-9.
‘Many people believe that some element or risk of danger is necessarily and automatically
connected with the sense of physical exhilaration ... it is clearly more exhilarating to travel at
80 m.p.h. on a motorbike on the Kingston By-pass than at the same speed on a train, largely
because, I believe, there is considerably more personal danger involved in the former. And
although the excitement to be derived from activities undertaken at camp is on a somewhat
different plane from the living-for-kicks attitude of the ‘ton-up boys’, nevertheless, that
excitement is largely derived from the risks inherent in those activities and is, to a certain
extent, directly proportional to the magnitude of those risks. The twin facts must be faced by
all that the activities on a camp such as ours do involve a certain degree of risk or danger,
and that, if that element of risk or danger were not present, those activities would lose almost
all their appeal … Furthermore, I would say that most people at most times on the camp do
respond to the various little risks and challenges in the same way – do succeed in
overcoming them – viz. Jason Abdelnoor took forty-five minutes to conquer a rock face that
others had climbed in two, but he did conquer it; I have completely cured myself of the fear
of heights I had before I first went mountain walking – and do feel the exhilaration and pride
in their conquests. And although this pride soon wears off and is not the sort of thing to
boast about in the company of others who have probably attained the same achievement
only in better fashion, nevertheless I am sure that this sense of achievement at having
overcome some risk, however small, at having done something you had never done before,
and of having received your physical, mental and spiritual reward for doing so, is just what
makes camp so much more worthwhile than a normal holiday.
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Rosey Porter. ‘Say no to nationalization of the mag’. North Wales 1964: 14-15.
Nationalization would mean (1) An increased burden to the taxpayer. Last year the Wales
mag made a deficit of £2:10s. This would mean that if this burden were shared equally by all
taxpayers, an increase in your taxes of ___360___ x 52d would result, or approximately one
five millionth of a penny per 20,000,000 week – not per year, you will notice. At that
rate, your property would soon disappear. Moreover, the Wales mag capital assets would
have to be paid for. These are:
Bob Moy’s printing machine
Bob Moy
Dart board
Mick Pike’s nose insured for
4 sq yards of hardboard bought
in mistake for cardboard
3 reams of used paper
Beer money
…
…
…
…
Not so grand total
…
…
…
…
£.
17
20,000:
1
s.
7:
8:
8:
0:
d.
6
2
10
0
3:
9
7_
5
_ __________________
£20,019:
9:
3_d
Rosey Porter. ‘To protect the innocents the names have been changed of …’ North Wales
1964: 95-97.
1. The world’s worst mountain walking instructor.
‘Right now; are we all here or wherever we are? Jefferies, get out of that bog – you’ll get
your balaclava muddy. Farrell, go and pull Jefferies out of that bog. Mind ... Swinson, go
and pull Farrell – oh, better not – got to have at least two left to carry Wray down the
mountain side. By the way, have you found his other leg yet, Neale? Now, where’s my
compass? Ah, here it is. What’s that about it being the wrong sort of compass? Mr Holman
and Mr Massey always use this sort. Oh well, I’ll borrow yours, Sheen. I lost it sounding the
depth of that crevasse, did I? Oh yes, well it was better than losing one of you down it.
Well, I’ll borrow Well’s compass. Oh, we lost him down the crevasse, did we? Neale, you’re
a sensible sort of chap – perhaps you could show us the way. Neale. Neale? NEALE! Do
any of you know the distress signal? Ten seconds of Radio Caroline every minute, isn’t it?
Hullo, here’s a chap with a beard coming along – I’ll ask him. Excuse me, my good man,
could you show me the way to the main marquee?’
(Also includes the world’s worst pony trekking instructor; the world’s worst canoeing
instructor; the world’s worst rock climbing expert.)
Rosey Porter. ‘Through the eyes of Rosey Porter’. North Wales 1964: 103-104.
‘It was all Bob Moy’s fault, really. You see he was reading his celebrated poem about
jellyfish in the literary project tent (if you see what I mean) when Timmy overheard. Being so
taken up with the spirit of the poem –
“But the silent menace of these slow-drifting jellyfish –
Translucent, tentacled, slowly pulsating”
his imagination was fired. Hence with a new spirit of enquiry, he took great interest in the
long brown worm which had its head wound round a little tree that was growing out of the
ground and its tail holding up the pole of the main marquee. Hence he began to eat it – all
thirty feet of it (you can see him forcing in the last bit in the photo on the back page). Now at
the same time, Mr Prentice was worried because his car would not go. This strange
occurrence was due to the mysterious disappearance of the parts of its engine. Mr Prentice
fortunately saw what had happened to Timmy, and using bread pud as an emetic, the truth
238
came out. Mr Dobson (in photo) said that it reminded him of a tape-worm, but Mr Prentice,
the distinguished guynacologist said that this was only because tape looked like rope.
Fortunately, along with the truth and the rope came the missing parts of Mr Prentice’s car …
Rosey Porter. ‘For I’m off to expedition with my primus on my knee’. North Wales 1964:
125-131.
‘… on the next day, fine but rather misty, we decided to climb the Carneddau, as an easy
warming up before tackling the harder Glyders. Now the Carneddau are about as high as
anything else in the district, rising to 3485 feet, but their slopes are mainly gentle and grassy
and once you’re on top of the ridge you can walk for miles without losing or gaining much
height. And you have to walk miles to cover the main peaks which makes ‘doing the
Carneddau’ a long, tiring but not difficult day out. Well, we walked steadily uphill for about
one and a half hours, without being able to see much in front of us except a prolongation of
the grassy slope and the indistinct peak of Carnedd Llywalyn away to our left in front,
separated from us by a deep valley immediately to our left. Then suddenly we topped the
brow, and the view thrilled, and at the same time not a little scared us, all the more
impressive for its suddenness. Now fear, particularly fear of heights, is an illogical thing. I
have always been afraid of heights, but have managed to conquer this fear more or less in
the last few years. Going up a normal mountain is alright, because then you can see the
view becoming more magnificent (and hence awe-inspiring) and the distance below you
increasing. But here it was different. Having suddenly emerged from a position from where
there was no view to one where a rugged prospect greeted us, for a moment I stood
wondering and rather taken aback – illogically so because there was no element of danger
from where I was standing. The view remains more vivid in my memory than any other,
more because of its suddenness than because it was the most magnificent I had seen. We
were standing on a small peak on one side of a long, fairly narrow valley and Carnedd
Llywelyn rose high immediately opposite on the other side. To our left, along the valley,
many hundreds of feet below, lay a sparkling deep blue lake. To our right we could see a
similar lake, surrounded by crags and some old quarries. Immediately ahead, between
where we stood and Carnedd Llywelyn was a natural causeway, spanning the valley, itself
hundreds of feet high but only a few feet wide. It is a sight I shall always remember …’
Rosey Porter. ‘Exclusive!! Sensational!! Scandalous revelations about what goes on on the
advance party, by the man they need not gag’. North Wales 1964: 139-142.
‘…first, may I take it upon myself to congratulate Mr Sollis on not organizing it quite so badly
as last year. By a rare stroke of luck, he got us to the station on time (in other words, we
went by bus) and it is just conceivable that it wasn’t his fault that twenty tents were delivered
to the camp site without any poles (though it sounds suspiciously like the sort of thing only
he or one close to him could perpetrate). Anyway, who’s moaning? You can keep a jolly
site drier with twenty tents than twenty poles.
Be that as it may, most of the members of the party did reach Fegla Fach in good time and
we started to put up somewhere to sleep and to cook something to eat before the rain
started. Not that it particularly looked like rain, but it is Prentice’s Law that it always rains
before your tents are up, despite Dobson’s Theory that it never rains in Wales. You’ll notice
that I said most people arrived in good time. You see, one thing was perplexing us, the fact
that Mr Prentice had not arrived, though this did give us 22_ baked beans extra each. Now,
Mr Prentice is always late, not for psychological reasons, as is the case with Mr Sollis, but
for physical causes, or rather one physical, concrete string and rubber-band cause – his car.
Printing costs prevent me from describing what had happened to it on previous camps –
suffice it to say that in living memory it never has worked properly and in all probability never
will, and also that Stewart and Arden opened another three branches on the proceeds. (By
the way, I have got a good lawyer, if that Cicero fellow hasn’t retired yet)…’
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Rosey Porter. ‘A guide to the guides’. Westmorland 1965: 15-16.
‘It was the eighteenth century that the Lake District first became a popular resort of
fashionable society, being visited by, among others, Doctor Johnson, Gray the poet, Mrs
Radcliffe the authoress and Jane Austen, all of whom left behind them descriptions and
reminiscences of the area. The eighteenth century on the whole was rather overawed by,
and disapproved of mountains (once called by Doctor Johnson ‘unnecessary
protuberances’) preferring the wildness of Nature to be tempered by man’s Art, and a cult of
the picturesque grew up, in which those parts of Nature were most appreciated which
corresponded to man’s idea of balance, proportion and landscape painting. Therefore if it is
remembered that most of these writers never actually climbed the mountains, it is not
surprising that much writing of the period about the Lake District was wildly inaccurate,
exaggerated and ‘Romantic’. Mountains were always ‘sheer, jagged, sublime’, irrespective
of their actual features, and eighteenth century prints also bear little relation to reality …’
Roy Porter. ‘A drive through the Lake District’. Westmorland 1965: 36-38.
‘…Reluctantly we turned our back on the Langdales, and with frequent backward glances
made our way to the foot of the Wrynose Pass, and thence up that winding road. We were
now in a different world. Instead of sharp, craggy peaks we had huge rolling moors for
company; spacious, dark green, succeeding each other as far as the eye could see; Ulpha
Fell on the right, the massive Wetherlam on the left, and Harter Fell as yet invisible in front.
We descended the Wrynose into the Duddon Valley, a wide, rocky, none too fertile valley
separating these fells, with the apparent wall of the Wardknott Pass ahead, which we
ascended with a little coaxing. And a completely different vista appeared; before us green
and pleasant Eskdale, looking like a place where one could live rather than merely exist; in
the distance the sea, with the sun glinting on it, and farther still, the mauve mountains of the
Isle of Man. But to the right a harsher note, our first sight of the Scafell Group; Scafell on the
left, with its precipitous east side leading straight down to Mickledore, Scafell Pikes next to it,
highest mountain in the country; Broad Crag, Great End, and the conical Bowfell, all
appearing a hazy grey, lifeless, gaunt, foreboding, amid a wealth of colour around us. We
worked our way west, down Eskdale, turning north-east for the final part of our journey up
Wansdale. Tantalizingly we travelled a couple of miles up the lower valley, separated from
the longed-for view by a small ridge and a wood, then suddenly, over the top, and we had
before us the most thrilling scene in the district. Seeing this we knew why we had come; it
was as simple as that. The whole length of Wastwater lay before us, calm, dark blue, its
edges black, reflecting the myriad colours of the Screes to our right which fall two thousand
feet precipitously straight into the lake; on the left the hump of Yewbarrow; further down on
the right, grassy Lingmell framed between the two; the pyramid of Gable, bare, rocky, the
Napes Ridges outlined by cumulous…’
Rosey Porter. ‘Cooking by primus or a mess of porridge’. Westmorland 1965: 50-52.
‘(1) Ascertain whereabouts of nearest phone box and first aid kit.
(2) Take primus tin (You’ve probably forgotten to bring this along but, never mind, pilfer your
Group Leader’s while he’s apologizing to the farmer – Group Leaders are always apologizing
to the farmer).
(3) Try to open lid.
(4) Fail.
(5) Prize off lid with ‘Lifter’ from billy-set (if you’re camping on high ground these are known
as ‘hill-billies’).
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(6) Wipe blood from nose, emit suitable multi purpose mono-syllabic Anglo-Saxon expletive
(e.g. Cripes) whereupon the Lord hurls down a thunderbolt and rather heavier rain, search
for bits of primus on the grass and withdraw bent ‘lifter’ from new hole in tent. Surreptitiously
exchange your bent ‘lifter’ for group Leader’s who is now searching for lost members of
group) only to find that some-one has beaten you to it…’
Roy Porter. ‘The Brighton crawl’. The Wilsonian, December 1965: 45.
‘This year again the School staged a veteran sixth-form race to Brighton, the School Prefects
being challenged by the rest of the sixth-form. Unfortunately – at the tryst (Greyhound,
Streatham) only three people turned up, Michael Pike, Jim Winterhalder and myself … We
took our first rest at Redhill at midnight where Jim ate some sandwiches and changed his
socks, or ate some socks and changed his sandwiches. At this point he found that he had
developed blisters on top of the blisters he had already developed on top of etc., and so he
dropped out … Michael and I strode on till we reached a transport café just before Crawley
… We hastened on through Crawley (twice) and as dawn broke the South Downs came into
sight. Cowering at their massive height we stopped for breakfast. Here my chances of a
great victory were sabotaged (I suspect) for I accepted a doped sandwich from Michael. We
walked on until at about nine o’clock we came to a café … As soon as I had had a cup of tea
the dope had its effect and drowsiness came on, forcing me to retire just within sight of
attaining the coveted goal. Hence Michael the intriguer battled on alone and claims he
reached Brighton at about one o’clock (seventeen and a half hours in all). Of course nobody
actually saw him …’
Roy Porter. ‘Sir Hans Sloane and the founding of the British Museum’. Lecture to the
Victorian Society (dated by Professor Martin Rudwick), February 1971.
Roy Porter. Untitled paper on eighteenth century anthropology, annotated by Professor
Martin Rudwick as given to Jack Plumb’s seminar, 26 February 1971.
Roy Porter. ‘Art and science in the Scottish Enlightenment’. Paper given at a conference in
Edinburgh, July 1971 (annotated by Professor Martin Rudwick).
Roy Porter. ‘The history of science: subject or specialism?’ Paper annotated by Professor
Martin Rudwick as given at Warburg seminar, November 1972.
Roy Porter. ‘Whatever is the Enlightenment?’ Seminar paper, undated.
Roy Porter. ‘The independence of theory in eighteenth century geology.’ Seminar paper,
undated.
Roy Porter. ‘Cambridge sinks: the great clean-up’. Typescript dated 28 August 1978 on the
‘cleansing and polishing’ of Cambridge, largely through the expanded admission of women
students in 1972 with the undergraduate colleges becoming residential.
Roy Porter. ‘Alternative environments’. Paper dated by Roy, 11 September 1978 and
(thinks Professor Martin Rudwick) given at his seminar, 15 September 1978.
241
Roy Porter. ‘Sedgwick Club Centenary’. Paper given to the Sedgwick Club, Cambridge, on
the centenary of its foundation, 13 March 1880.
Roy Porter. ‘The founding of the Linnean Society’. Paper given to the Linnean Society early
in 1988 (near the centenary of its foundation, 26 February 1788). See also Roy Porter. ‘The
new taste for nature in the eighteenth century’. The Linnean 1988; 4: 14-30.
Roy Porter. ‘A social history of London: A proposal’. Book proposal, undated.
Roy Porter. ‘In defence of history’. Paper dated 15 September 1997, prepared for a review
of Richard Evans’ book, In defence of history, which Roy gave on the following radio
programme:
Book of the month
BBC recording broadcast Radio 3, 23 September 1997.
National Sound Archive ref H9260/2
Contents: ‘The last few years have seen a crisis in the professional study of history as
cultural theory undermined its traditional goals’. Roy Porter reviews Richard John Evans
(1947-) book, In defence of history, and taking up Evans’ argument, he reflects on his own
ideas of history.
Roy Porter. ‘Notre Dame’. Paper on the spread of the English Enlightenment through
religion, dated 20 March 1998 and given at a lecture at the University of Notre Dame, Notre
Dame, Indiana, on 1 April 1998.
Roy Porter. Typescript dated 15 December 1999 of speech given at the last Christmas party
of the Wellcome Institute and its Academic Unit.
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