Collectors of rare books and curios and the rapidly-thinning remnant of the literary coterie that brightened New York life thirty or forty years ago will regret to learn of the death of George G. Clapp. It occurred a week ago in a Bowery lodging house. None of his friends knew of it for several days. Meanwhile his Body went the rounds at the Coroner, the Morgue, and the dissecting boom, and what was left of it finally reached Potter's Field.