It is again objected that "Every art proposes to itself an end; but
rhetoric has no end, or does not put into execution the end it proposes
to itself." This is false, as is shown from what already has been said
concerning the end of rhetoric and in what it consists. The orator will
never fail to obtain this end, for he always will speak well. This
objection, therefore, can affect only those who make persuasion the end
of rhetoric; but our orator, and our definition of art, are not
restricted to events. An orator, indeed, strives to gain his cause; but
suppose he loses it, as long as he has pleaded well he fulfils the
injunctions of his art. A pilot desires to come safe into port, but if a
storm sweeps away his ship, is he, on that account, a less experienced
pilot? His keeping constantly to the helm is sufficient proof that he
was not neglecting his duty. A physician tries to cure a sick person,
but if his remedies are hindered in their operation by either the
violence of the disease, the intemperance of the patient, or some
unforeseen accident, he is not to be blamed, because he has satisfied
all the directions of his art. So it is with the orator, whose end is to
speak well; for it is in the act, and not in the effect, that art
consists, as I shall soon make clear. Therefore, it is false to say that
"Art knows when it has obtained its end, but rhetoric knows nothing of
the matter," as if an orator could be ignorant of his speaking well and
to the purpose.
But it is said, further, that rhetoric, contrary to the custom of all
other arts, adopts vice, because it countenances falsehood and moves the
passions. Neither of these are bad practises, and consequently not
vicious, when grounded on substantial reasons. To disguise truth is
sometimes allowable even in the sage, and if a judge can not be brought
to do justice except by means of the passions, the orator must
necessarily have recourse to them. Very often the judges appointed to
decide are ignorant, and there is necessity for changing their wrongly
conceived opinions, to keep them from error. Should there be a bench, a
tribunal, an assembly of wise and learned judges whose hearts are
inaccessible to hatred, envy, hope, fear, prejudice, and the impositions
of false witnesses, there would be little occasion for the exertions of
eloquence and all that might seem requisite would be only to amuse the
ear with the harmony of cadence. But if the orator has to deal with
light, inconstant, prejudiced, and corrupt judges, and if many
embarrassments must be removed in order to throw light upon truth, then
artful stratagem must fight the battle, and set all its engines to work,
for he who is beaten out of the straight road can not get into it again
except by another turnabout.