died. Anne Ottey buried him at her own cost, and had to sell some of the few things in his chambers to repay herself in part, while she induced Gravely Claypole to pay her a quarter's allowance in further reduction of her claim. The deeds which were in his possession show how Norborough had been incumbered. In 1676 he and "Cromwell Claypoole," the eldest son of his first marriage, had mortgaged it for £2,000. The mortgage soon grew to double this amount. Finally it had been sold to Lord Fitzwilliam, in whose family it still remains. On the completion of Lord Fitzwilliam's purchase, he had retained £400 of the purchase-money to answer any claim which Blanch might raise for her dower. This was the only tangible thing on which she could lay hold. She established her right, but did not live long to receive the benefit of it, dying at Walthamstow in October 1692. Of Anne Ottey we have one more glimpse. She lodged in Izard's house after her employer's death. Gravely Claypole, coming up to town, sought an interview with her to learn the particulars of his brother's sickness and death, and saw in his room in the Temple books and papers lying all, or most of them, on the ground, which he understood belonged to the dead man. Besides the deeds relating to Norborough, there were leases of mines in Gloucestershire, the settlement made in March, 1645-6 on his marriage with Elizabeth Cromwell (there is something pathetic about finding this amongst his papers preserved for over forty years), and some bonds, by one of which, dated January 1656, Richard Claypoole, Esq., became bound unto "his loveing nephew, the Hon. John Claypoole, Esq., Master of the Horse to His Highness the Lord Protector," to secure payment of £25. It is a striking contrast to the glitter of the earlier days, this obscure ending under conditions so mean and dependent. But we have neither space nor inclination to moralise on the trite theme of the uncertainty of human greatness. Our readers must draw a moral for themselves. Anne Ottey saw to Claypole's funeral, and thenceforth is lost again in the obscurity from which the Chancery Records momentarily rescue her. Bridget, the daughter of John and Blanch, lived to womanhood, married Aubrey Price in 1697, and transmitted the Claypole blood to numerous descendants. R. W. RAMSEY. VOL. CCLXXIII. NO. 1943. I I THE GOLF CLUB. OW we ever came to form our Literary Club at all would, H perhaps, be hard to explain. Chance, I suppose, had as much to do with the matter as any personal effort on my part or the Essayist's. Even the Poet drifted in casually, and, as it were, unasked. My friend Hopkins claims the title of founder, it is true; but beyond the fact of his acquaintance with myself, and some chance suggestion, possibly, that he may have thrown out in the course of conversation over a casual pipe, I can discover no ground for such an assumption. The fact was, there was an imperative necessity for some such association as ours, and the want was bound to be supplied. Our little town needed emancipation sorely, and we contrived between us the means of liberation. Before we settled there-the original members of the club-the mind of St. Mungo-by-the-Sea was unawakened. There was an absolute lack of mental activity in the place. We have, I think I may say without pride, instituted a revolution here which will have far-reaching consequences. We have gradually brought our fellow-citizens to perceive that there may be other reasons in the world for existence than the game of golf. When Hopkins and myself came here first there was a club already in existence-a golfers' club, and it possessed a commodious club-house and a fine links. It was this club which ruled the town, and, practically, gave laws and employment to all its inhabitants. Everyone played, and the greater part were bound up heart and soul in the game. Even the Poet was an enthusiastic, though indifferent, performer. The Essayist, who had only preceded us in our visit by a week or so, was inveigled into the toils-I speak advisedly-of this extraordinary pastime for a round or two. As for Hopkins and myself, we tried it once, and it is in all probability owing to that attempt on our part that our Literary Club now exists and flourishes. Unconsciously, indeed, we began that very evening the series of meetings which was destined to become regular, and ultimately to develop itself into an organised association. We formed a quartet -from such humble seedlings spring sometimes the giant oaks of the literary forest-and we sat and talked, a smoking parliament. Chiefly, as was natural, we talked of golf. "There is a remarkable current of opinion at the present moment," so remarked someone, the Essayist, as I think, "driving this curious game, relict of a past age, into popular favour. There is, too, a stream of literature "The golf stream, possibly," I threw in, just to divert his attention, for he seemed to be inclined overmuch to soliloquy. He smiled perfunctorily, and continued, "A stream of literature, good, bad, and indifferent-chiefly of the latter two classes-deluging our bookshelves and railway stalls, on this one subject alone. Surely no game has ever received hitherto so great an amount of notice from the press in such a short time. The game is rising into popularity on wings of paper; it soars aloft with ruddy pinions like any flamingo." "Let it soar," said the Poet, who was waiting eagerly his opportunity to break in, "it is a noble game. I for one, bad though I am and always will be, perchance"-he spoke mournfully, but with a flush of hope upon his cheek-"though I never get round that course in less than a hundred and fifty strokes, and men say my swing is an awesome sight, yet, say I, play on, play on." The Poet is an athletic youth of five and twenty summers. Except from a tenderness to his mother tongue, which makes him something studious of speech, and, above all, abhorrent of slang expressions, no one would suspect him of poetry at all. Yet he has published, at his own risk, and what is more, promises to do so, if I will, at mine. "The game," I said, partly to humour him, "has certainly its good points. As a source of amusement to outsiders it is distinctly an acquisition. For a sane man, who delights now and then in contemplating cynically the follies of his fellow-creatures, I should say the game would offer considerable attractions. The attitudes are good. That expression of stern resolve, outcome of the 'dour' spirit recommended in one of the Poet's handbooks to the game, increases the comic aspect of the whole thing immensely. There is some fun to be gathered in watching a party driving off from the first teeing-ground, nervousness and anxiety struggling for the mastery with those precepts the attendant caddies are never tired of repeating. The puttinggreens present a good exposition of varied styles, and a sand-bunker is no mean incentive to hilarity. But of all things in a golf-links for the casual outsider to sit by and moralise upon, of all places where I should choose to take my stand for an afternoon if I were at enmity with the world and sick at heart with human life, give me, Poet mine, the burn." Our burn is a respectable river. Here and there it is crossed by a trellis bridge, and barefoot boys, with fishing-nets in hand, hang by its banks and make a goodly income from recovered balls. On these bridges I have lounged away an hour or two before now, and marked the troops of golfers marching up, some confident and serene, some with ill-disguised anxiety. It is curious how they all tumble in-I mean, of course, the balls-not once only, for the most part, but often twice and three times. There is a kind of magnetism in the waters of that unhallowed stream. Men approach it in every possible fashion. A full drive from the first tee will carry into it (some few are fabled to have carried over in the heroic past), a short one will bring you within reasonable distance of its banks. The strong man resolute will drive into it with one mighty swipe, pick out and drop behind; the nervous palterer will play for a safe lie, dribble his ball a yard or two, and probably play into the dreaded obstacle with his third. The Poet, I am sorry to say, is one of these palterers. Three several times he went in the other afternoon, whilst I sat upon the bridge and mocked—unobtrusively-his efforts. Three several times did he lift a sod of clean cut turf high over the river, whilst the ball rolled slowly in. It was a pitiable, but a comical sight. "There is another thing," he said, turning the subject, as I introduced this last topic, and was referring gently to the singular accidents I had witnessed, "another thing even more laughable than these misfortunes which seem to afford you so much mirth. To appreciate properly the height to which exaggeration can be carried let me recommend you to visit the club-house in the evening after an important match. Indeed, I might say on any evening. The stories you will hear there will amuse and interest you. There are some lies told there which are as bad as anything I have ever heard in an anglers' tavern. I need say no more." "I, too," murmured Hopkins softly, "have heard a good deal of bad lies in connection with this game of yours. Some golfers are always complaining of them, as if they were especially damaging to themselves personally, and even injured their chance of success in a match-a curious hallucination which I could never fathom. For a game that can barely support existence, as I should fancy, unless the players are both accurate and sensitively honest, it would seem, Poet, to be in something of a perilous condition." "I would not mind these golfers so much," said I, "if they were not so absurdly proud of this game of theirs. In the eyes of a confirmed golfer the outside world which refuses to worship his fetich is scarcely human. He has no respect for other and more manly exercises. I am told he even speaks of 'reformed cricketers.' What advantages has this game got to show over others that can justify such conceit ? Healthful it may be, and promotes appetite, I doubt not. As an exercise for old men or dyspeptic epicures it may have a good excuse for existence, but whom did golf ever develop as men are developed by cricket, football, even by lawn-tennis ?" "Think, too," interjected the Essayist, "of the language it has brought into fashion. The slight gain to the English vocabulary is surely more than counterbalanced by the uncouth nature of these words that are creeping into every-day use around us. The terminology of our other national sports is becoming debased. Only the other day I was playing at billiards-a favourite pastime of mine-and was compelled to rebuke my opponent for suggesting that I was 'stimied,' or some such absurd expression, from the red ball." "The language of golf," remarked Hopkins, in his usual meditative manner, "would certainly be coolly received in some circles. I am told that some of the terms made use of by eminent golfers during their daily rounds are calculated to scorch and scarify any hearer less seasoned than the attendant caddy." The Poet had been busy scribbling on stray pieces of paper for some little while. Here he broke in rather hastily "No, no, Hopkins, that is really too inaccurate to pass uncontradicted. At St. Mungo it is notorious that swearing on the links is unknown. Curiously enough," he went on, blushing just a little as he mentioned the fact, "I was just now jotting down a few lines in which I have adverted to that very point, and I have remarked that there seems to be some beneficent influence in the air of this place, as it were, which entirely precludes anything of the kind, at any rate among our own natives." He then cleared his throat, and read as follows: THE ST. MUNGO GOLF SONG. You tell me of your Southern links, Of Sandwich-where the Saxon thinks |