In England, to express that a man has a deal of wit, they say that he
has "great parts." Whence can this phrase, which is now the astonishment
of the French, have come? From themselves. Formerly, we very commonly
used the word "parties" in this sense. "Clelia," "Cassandra," and our
other old romances, are continually telling us of the "parts" of their
heroes and heroines, which parts are their wit. And, indeed, who can
have _all_? Each of us has but his own small portion of intelligence, of
memory, of sagacity, of depth and extent of ideas, of vivacity, and of
subtlety. The word "parts" is that most fitting for a being so limited
as man. The French have let an expression escape from their dictionaries
which the English have laid hold of: the English have more than once
enriched themselves at our expense. Many philosophical writers have been
astonished that, since every one pretends to wit, no one should dare to
boast of possessing it.
"Envy," it has been said, "permits every one to be the panegyrist of his
own probity, but not of his own wit." It allows us to be the apologists
of the one, but not of the other. And why? Because it is very necessary
to pass for an honest man, but not at all necessary to have the
reputation of a man of wit.
The question has been started, whether all men are born with the same
mind, the same disposition for science, and if all depends on their
education, and the circumstances in which they are placed? One
philosopher, who had a right to think himself born with some
superiority, asserted that minds are equal; yet the contrary has always
been evident. Of four hundred children brought up together, under the
same masters and the same discipline, there are scarcely five or six
that make any remarkable progress. A great majority never rise above
mediocrity, and among them there are many shades of distinction. In
short, minds differ still more than faces.