The following trait is seriously told of him, and is well substantiated. “Chevalier,” said a lady to him one night, at a crowded assembly of the Hôtel St. Florentin, “do you ever remember having, in the course of your voyages, encountered our Lord Jesus Christ?” “Yes,” replied the profane impostor, without hesitation and raising his eyes to heaven. “I have often seen and often spoken to Him. I have frequently had occasion to admire his mildness, genius, and charity. He was a celestial being; and I often prophesied what would befall Him!” The hearers, far from being shocked, only continued to ply the count with other questions. “Did you ever meet with the Wandering Jew?” asked a young marquiss. “Often!” was the reply; and the count added with an air of disdain:—“that wretched blasphemer once dared to salute me on the high-road; he was then just setting out on his tour of the world, and counted his money with one hand in his pocket, as he passed along.” “Count,” asked a Chevalier de St. Louis, “who was the composer of that brilliant sonata you played to-night, on the harpsichord?” “I really can not say. It is a song of victory, and I heard it executed for the first time on the day of the triumph of Trajan.” “Will you be indiscreet, dear count, for once,” asked a newly-married baronne, “and tell us the names of the three ladies whom you have the most tenderly loved?” “That is difficult,” said the honest knight with a smile, “but I think I may say that they were Lucretia, Aspasia, and Cleopatra.”
The gay world of Paris said he was, at least two thousand years old; and he did not take the pains to contradict the report. There is reason to suppose that he was the son of a Portuguese Jew, who had resided at Bordeaux. His career was soon ended.
There was a far more respectable chevalier in our own country to whom the term of Sham Knight can hardly apply; but as he called himself “Sir John,” and that title was not admitted in a court of law, some notice of him may be taken here.
There was then in the reign of George III., a knight of some notoriety, whose story is rather a singular one. When Sir John Gallini is now spoken of, many persons conclude that this once remarkable individual received the honors of knighthood at the hands of King George. I have been assured so by very eminent operatic authorities, who were, nevertheless, completely in error. Sir John Gallini was a knight of George III.’s time, but he was so created by a far more exalted individual; in the opinion, at least, of those who give to popes, who are elective potentates, a precedence over kings, who are hereditary monarchs. The wonder is that Gallini was ever knighted at all, seeing that he was simply an admirable ballet-dancer. But he was the first dancer who ever received an encore for the dexterous use of his heels. The Pope accordingly clapped upon them a pair of golden spurs, and Gallini was, thenceforth, Cavaliere del Sperone d’Oro. Such a knight may be noticed in this place.
Gallini came to England at a time when that part of the world, which was included in the term “people of quality,” stood in need of a little excitement. This was in 1759, when there was the dullest of courts, with the heaviest of mistresses, and an opera, duller and heavier than either. Gallini had just subdued Paris by the magic of his saltatory movements. He thence repaired to London, with his reputation and slight baggage. He did not announce his arrival. It was sufficient that Gallini was there. He had hardly entered his lodgings when he was engaged, on his own terms. He took the town by storm. His pas seul was pronounced divine. The “quality” paid him more honor than if he had invented something useful to his fellow-men. He could not raise his toe, without the house being hushed into silent admiration. His entrechats were performed amidst thundering echoes of delight; his “whirls” elicited shrieks of ecstacy; and when he suddenly checked himself in the very swiftest of his wild career and looked at the house with a complacent smile, which seemed to say—“What do you think of that?” there ensued an explosion of tumultuous homage, such as the spectators would have not vouchsafed to the young conqueror of Quebec. Gallini, as far as opera matters were concerned, was found to be the proper man in the proper place. For four or five years he was despotic master of the ballet. He was resolved to be master of something else.
There was then in London a Lady Elizabeth Bertie. Her father, the Earl of Abingdon, then lately deceased, had, in his youth, married a Signora Collino, daughter to a “Sir John Collins.” The latter knight was not English, but of English descent. His son, Signor Collino, was a celebrated player of the lute in this country. He was indeed the last celebrated player on that instrument in England.
Gallini then, the very head of his profession, ranking therein higher than the Abingdons did in the peerage, was rather condescending than otherwise, when he looked upon the Earl of Abingdon as his equal. The earl whom he so considered was the son of the one who had espoused the Signora Collino, and Lady Elizabeth Bertie was another child of the same marriage. When Gallini the dancer, therefore, began to think of proposing for the hand of that lady, he was merely thinking of marrying the niece of an instrumental performer. Gallini did not think there was derogation in this; but he did think, vain, foolish fellow that he was, that such a union would confer upon him the title of “my lord.”
Gallini was a gentleman, nevertheless, in his way—that is, both in manners and morals. Proud indeed he was, as a peacock, and ambitious as a “climbing-boy,” desirous for ever of being at the top, as speedily as possible, of every branch of his profession. He was the “professor of dancing” in the Abingdon family, where his agreeable person, his ready wit, his amiability, and the modesty beneath which he hid a world of pretension, rendered him a general favorite. He was very soon the friend of the house; and long before he had achieved that rank, he was the very particular friend of Lady Elizabeth Bertie. She loved her mother’s soft Italian as Gallini spoke it; and in short she loved the Italian also, language and speaker. Lady and Signor became one.
When the match became publicly known the “did you evers?” that reached from box to box and echoed along the passages of the opera-house were deafening. “A lady of quality marry a dancer!” Why not, when maids of honor were held by royal coachmen as being bad company for the said coachman’s sons? It was a more suitable match than that of a lady of quality with her father’s footman.
Gallini happened to be in one of the lobbies soon after his marriage, where it was being loudly discussed by some angry beauties. In the midst of their ridicule of the bridegroom he approached, and exclaimed, “Lustrissima, son io! Excellent lady, I am the man!” “And what does the man call himself?” asked they with a giggle, and doubtless also with reference to the story of the bridegroom considering himself a lord by right of his marriage with a “lady”—“what does the man call himself?” “Eccelenza,” replied Gallini with a modest bow, “I am Signor Giovanni Gallini, Esquire.” In the midst of their laughter he turned upon his heel, and went away to dress in flesh-colored tights, short tunic, and spangles.