In Colonel _Morden's_ Account of the conveying the lifeless Remains of the Divine _Clarissa_ to be interred in the Vault of her Ancestors, his very Words keep solemn Pace with the Herse which incloses her once animated, now lifeless, Form. Step by Step we still attend her; turn with the Horses as they take the Bye-road to _Harlow-place_; start with the wretched, guilty Family, at the first Stroke of the mournful tolling Bell; are fixed in Amazement with the lumbering heavy Noise of the Herse up the paved inner Court-yard: But when the Servant comes in to acquaint the Family with its Arrival, and we read this Line, _He spoke not, he could not speak; he looked, he bowed, and withdrew_, we catch the Servant's silent Grief; our Words are choaked, and our Sensations grow too strong for Utterance. The awful Respect paid to _Clarissa's_ Memory by those Persons, who generally both rejoice and mourn in Noise and Clamour, is inimitably beautiful. But even in this solemn Scene the Author has not forgot the Characters of the principal Actors in it: For the barbarous Wretches who could drive _Clarissa_ from her native Home, and by their Cruelty hurl her to Destruction, could not shed Tears for her Loss, without mingled Bitterness, and sharp-cutting Recriminations on each other; every one striving to rid themselves of the painful Load, and to throw it doubly on their former Companions in Guilt. The Mother only, as she was the least guilty, deplores the heavy Loss with soft melting Tears, and lets Self-accusations flow from her trembling Lips. On the Arrival of Miss _Howe_, we turn from the slow moving Herse, to the rapid Chariot-wheels that fly to bring the warm Friend, all glowing with the most poignant lively Grief, to mourn her lost _Clarissa_. Here again the Description equals the noble Subject. Miss _Howe_, at the first striking Sight of _Clarissa_ in her Coffin, could only by frantic Actions express the labouring Anguish that perturbed her Breast. And we accompany her in Horror, when she first impatiently pushes aside the Coffin Lid. In short, we sigh, we rave, and we weep with her. What I felt at Colonel _Morden's_ Description at the Funeral, is exactly painted in the Letter wrote by Mr. _Belford_ in Answer to that Description, where he says, 'You croud me Sir, methinks, into the silent, slow Procession--Now with the sacred Bier do I enter the Porch--'[C] [C] See Vol. VII. Letter 74. Page 292. in _Clarissa_. But it would be endless to mention all the moving tragic Scenes, that are now crouding into my Mind, in _Clarissa_; all judiciously interspersed with Scenes of comic Humour; such as the Behaviour of _Lovelace_ at the Ball; the Meeting between him and Mr. _Hickman_; _Lovelace's_ Description of what he calls his Tryal before Lord M--and the Ladies; with some others equally calculated to relieve the Mind from fixing too long on mournful melancholy Ideas.