Down a gangplank to Manhattan last week there strode a youngish man carrying a suitcase. He— Col. Ralph Isham, book collector, Boswellian, millionaire—was not surprised to find reporters crowding around him on his arrival from England. In his little suitcase he had some old pages, scrawled over in a faint curlicue handwriting, which he had recently purchased. These old pages, now bound into heavy leather volumes each stamped with the Scottish crest, were old letters and manuscripts, mostly unpublished, mostly written in the thin...
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