Bouilhet cared nothing for thesis; he hated insipid phrases, and considered what is called "realism" a monstrosity. Stunning effects not being acquired by mild colouring, he preferred bold descriptions, violent situations--that is what made his poems really tragic. His plots weakened sometimes towards the middle, but, for a play in verse, were it more concise, it would crowd out all poetry. _La Conjuration d'Ambroise_ and _Mademoiselle Aïssé_ show some progress in this respect; but I am not blind; I censure his Louis XIV. in _Madame de Montarcy_ as too unreal; in _l'Oncle Million_ the feigned illness of the notary; in _Hélène Peyron_ the too prolix scene in the fourth act, and in _Dolorès_ the lack of harmony between vagueness and precision. In short, his personages are too poetical. He knew how to bring out sensational effects, however. For instance, the reappearance of Marcelline at Dubret's, the entrance cf Dom Pedro in the third act of _Dolorès_, the Countess of Brissot in the dungeon, the commander in the last act of _Aïssé_, and the ghostly reappearance of Cassius before the Empress Faustine. This book was unjustly criticised; nor was the atticism understood in _l'Oncle Million_, it being perhaps the best written of all his plays, as _Faustine_ is the most labouriously contrived. They are all very pathetic at the end, filled with exquisite things and real passion. How well suited to the voice his poems are! How virile his words, which make one shiver! Their impulsion resembles the flap of a great bird's wings!
The heroic style of his dramas secured them an enthusiastic reception; but his triumphs did not turn his head, as he knew that the best part of a work is not always understood, and he might owe his success to the weaker. If he had written the same plays in prose, perhaps his dramatic talent would have been extolled; but, unfortunately, he used a medium that is generally disliked. "No comedy in verse!" was the first cry, and later, "No verses on the stage!" Why not confess that we desire none at all?
He never wrote prose; rhymes were his natural dialect. He thought in rhymes, and he loved them so that he read all sorts with equal attention. When we love a thing we love every part of it. Play-goers love the green-room; gourmands love to smell cooking; mothers love to bathe their children. Disillusion is a sign of weakness. Beware of the fastidious, for they are usually powerless!