About the year 1721, a body of German colonists reached Mobile, and settled in the region adjoining. Among them was a woman of unusual personal beauty and of rare charm of manner. Her dress, and especially her jewels, indicated not only her station, but her wealth. She caused it to be understood that she was the daughter of the Duke of Brunswick Wolfenbuttel and the wife of Alexis Petrowitz, the son of Peter the Great, and accounted for her strange presence in the wilds of south Alabama, as due to the fact that she had been cruelly treated by the heir to the Russian throne; that she had fled the dominion of the great Peter, and for security, had sought the most distant region known to her. She furthermore asserted that the younger Peter had duly advertised the death of his wife, but insisted that the monstrous Muskovite had done this in order to conceal the scandal of her forced flight from his castle, and in order, too, to explain her absence from the court circles of St. Petersburg.

All this she explained to be a mere ruse, and that she was the real princess who had escaped his tyranny, preferring the inhospitable wilderness of a distant continent, to the royal palace with its tyrannous cruelty. The story received general credence, since the splendor of her attire and her familiarity with the inner secrets of the Russian court proved that she was no ordinary personage. Besides all this, there was increased evidence afforded by her conduct. Her beautiful face was saddened by some evident trouble over which she seemed to brood, as with a far-away look she would sit and muse for hours together. How else could all this be explained, save by the story which she related? This is just the evidence one would look for in substantiation of a story of cruelty.

The prepossessing manner of the princess, her immense fortune, and her ability to discuss Russian affairs, served to win not alone the confidence of all, but their sympathy as well. Her wrongs were the burden of her conversation, and her own reported station in life elicited much deference, which was duly and promptly accorded by all alike.

Great as the credence was, as a result of the recital of her wrongs, it received a reinforcement from another source that seemed to place it beyond question. Chevalier d’Aubant, a young French officer, had seen the wife of the Russian prince, and he declared that this was none other than she. He could not be mistaken, for he had seen her at St. Petersburg. This insistence settled the identity of the princess in the estimation of all.

But d’Aubant did not stop at this point of mere recognition. His profound sympathy awoke interest, which brought him frequently within the circle of the charms of the fair Russian, and, in turn, interest deepened into tenderness of affection. To the vivacious Frenchman, the glitter of wealth was far from proving an obstruction to the valiantness with which he assailed the citadel of her heart. At any rate, the chevalier and princess became one, lived in comparative splendor for years, and removed to Paris, where, in sumptuous apartments, they resided till the death of the chevalier.

The deep shadow which had come into the life of the princess, according to her own story, won her hosts of friends whom she was able to retain by reason of her charms. The well-known character of the second Peter, a dissolute, worthless wretch, and the fact that his father had sent him abroad in Europe, to travel with the hope that his ways might be reformed by a wider margin of observation of the affairs of the world, lent increased credence to the pathetic story and elicited fresh installments of interest and sympathy. Chevalier d’Aubant died in the belief that he had married the repudiated wife of the eldest son of Peter the Great of Russia.

But a fatal revelation was inevitable. It is said that while strolling in the Garden of the Tuileries she was one day met by the marshal of Saxe, who recognized her as one of the attendants of the Russian princess, an humble female who greatly resembled her mistress, and by reason of her contact with the most elevated of Russian society, had acquired the manners of the best, and while in the service of the princess had means of access to her wardrobe and purse, and by stealth, had enriched herself and at an unconjectured time fled the palace and escaped to America. The Chevalier d’Aubant, having seen the princess once, was easily deceived by the appearance of this woman, her wealth, and by the reputation of the Russian prince. On her ill-gotten wealth he lived for years, and died in blissful ignorance of her huge pretension.It is said that the pretender died at last in absolute penury in Paris, leaving an only daughter as the result of the marriage with Chevalier d’Aubant. The story has been related in different forms by different writers, and at one time was quite prevalent as a sensational romance in the literary circles of Europe. The particulars of this rare adventure may be found recorded in much of the literature of that period, some insisting on its accuracy, while others deny it. Duclos, a prolific writer of European romance, furnishes the amplest details of the affair, while such writers as Levesque, in his Russian history; Grimm, in his correspondence, and Voltaire, straightway repudiate the genuineness of the story on the basis of its improbability. The incidents of the time at the Russian court, the career of d’Aubant, and much else afford some reason for believing that there is at bottom, some occasion for a romance so remarkable.

Without here insisting on its genuineness, such is the story, in one of its forms, as it has come to the present. However, this, as well as much else, indicates how much of interesting matter lies in literary mines unworked in connection with our primitive history. The literary spirit of the South has never been properly encouraged by due appreciation, with the consequence of a scant literature. The industrial spirit seized our fathers in other years, and the fabulous fertility of our soils, the cultivation of which beneath fervid skies, in an even climate, has largely materialized our thought, and still does. Who now reads a book? If so, what is the character of the book? We scan the morning daily, or read at sleepy leisure the evening press, skim the magazines, and this usually tells the story. From sire to son this has been the way gone for generations. Permit the bare statement without the moralizing.