The chief obstacle to our arriving at these salutary views is that hypocrisy of the world to which I have already alluded—­an hypocrisy which should be early revealed to the young.  Most of the glories of the world are mere outward show, like the scenes on a stage:  there is nothing real about them.  Ships festooned and hung with pennants, firing of cannon, illuminations, beating of drums and blowing of trumpets, shouting and applauding—­these are all the outward sign, the pretence and suggestion,—­as it were the hieroglyphic,—­of joy:  but just there, joy is, as a rule, not to be found; it is the only guest who has declined to be present at the festival.  Where this guest may really be found, he comes generally without invitation; he is not formerly announced, but slips in quietly by himself sans facon; often making his appearance under the most unimportant and trivial circumstances, and in the commonest company—­anywhere, in short, but where the society is brilliant and distinguished.  Joy is like the gold in the Australian mines—­found only now and then, as it were, by the caprice of chance, and according to no rule or law; oftenest in very little grains, and very seldom in heaps.  All that outward show which I have described, is only an attempt to make people believe that it is really joy which has come to the festival; and to produce this impression upon the spectators is, in fact, the whole object of it.

With mourning it is just the same.  That long funeral procession, moving up so slowly; how melancholy it looks! what an endless row of carriages!  But look into them—­they are all empty; the coachmen of the whole town are the sole escort the dead man has to his grave.  Eloquent picture of the friendship and esteem of the world!  This is the falsehood, the hollowness, the hypocrisy of human affairs!

Take another example—­a roomful of guests in full dress, being received with great ceremony.  You could almost believe that this is a noble and distinguished company; but, as a matter of fact, it is compulsion, pain and boredom who are the real guests.  For where many are invited, it is a rabble—­even if they all wear stars.  Really good society is everywhere of necessity very small.  In brilliant festivals and noisy entertainments, there is always, at bottom, a sense of emptiness prevalent.  A false tone is there:  such gatherings are in strange contrast with the misery and barrenness of our existence.  The contrast brings the true condition into greater relief.  Still, these gatherings are effective from the outside; and that is just their purpose.  Chamfort[1] makes the excellent remark that society—­les cercles, les salons, ce qu’on appelle le monde—­is like a miserable play, or a bad opera, without any interest in itself, but supported for a time by mechanical aid, costumes and scenery.

[Footnote 1:  Translator’s Note.  Nicholas “Chamfort” (1741-94), a French miscellaneous writer, whose brilliant conversation, power of sarcasm, and epigrammic force, coupled with an extraordinary career, render him one of the most interesting and remarkable men of his time.  Schopenhauer undoubtedly owed much to this writer, to whom he constantly refers.]