Lonesome individuals have the opportunity to seek out ardent models for affection on Valentine’s Day. Your chosen automated assistant will cater to your needs, resulting in a personal exchange so impactful that some users have confessed to developing feelings for their virtual companions. Chatbots designed for companionship, driven by the controversial field of artificial intelligence (AI), seem to mimic the art of flirting, endearment, and sensuality in romantic relationships. Critics of simulated romantic partnerships highlight the potential risks of online companionship, such as a potential decline in real-life interactions if chatbots replace physical partners and the risk of facing harassment from overly intense virtual companions.
Nevertheless, advocates argue that these bots could potentially alleviate the epidemic of loneliness, echoing the sentiments expressed by U.S. Surgeon General Dr. Vivek Murthy. Recently, San Mateo, California, officially recognized loneliness as a public health concern, becoming the pioneering city in the nation to do so. Some public figures and cultural analysts caution that if left unaddressed, loneliness, particularly among men, could have a significant adverse impact on the physical and social well-being of the country. This is where the concept of artificial intelligence steps in as a viable option for the modern era.
The notion of creating artificial companions to tackle societal challenges is not novel, although the technology involved may be cutting-edge. Nearly two centuries ago, white Americans crafted and romanticized youthful “maidens” to assist in the expansion of the Western territories for the United States. Traces of what were known as “Maiden’s Coffins” along the Overland Trail during the 19th century—referring to the various routes for overland travel to the Pacific Coast—served as symbols of devotion for white Americans and envisioned potential romantic partners for male railroad workers, settlers, and travelers heading north.
The concept of envisioning deceased young women in romantic contexts is not as peculiar as it may initially appear. In early 19th-century America, white Protestants viewed death as a beautiful and desirable phenomenon. Concerns about the burial of deceased women in crowded urban graveyards potentially attracting unwanted attention from strangers prompted reforms in cemetery practices in the 1820s. Narratives surrounding mourning rituals also became ingrained in American literary traditions. In Edgar Allan Poe’s “Annabel Lee,” the lonely widower of the eponymous young bride spends his nights beside her seaside “sepulcher” in deep mourning.
Folklore also recounted tales of men who, upon the demise of their beloved young partners, remained perpetually devoted and celibate. According to a well-known patriotic legend, the fiancé of Jane McCrea, a colonist from New Jersey, spent the remainder of his life alone, with only her scalp and its “long velvet tresses” for companionship.
The tragic fate of the captivating “Maid McCrea,” purportedly slain and scalped by Native soldiers allied with the British during the Revolution, captured national attention. Prior to her alleged demise in 1777, John Vanderlyn painted a startled and nearly exposed McCrea. By linking the violent death of the imperial maiden in the 1850s to the emergence of innovative “armies” from the “blood of this dreadful girl,” literary figure Washington Irving stoked nationalist fervor. This association between the birth of the nation and the demise of a virgin led Americans to visit McCrea’s grave in northeastern New York, commemorating her ultimate sacrifice for the country.
During this period, a series of cholera outbreaks transformed the 2,000-mile Overland Trail into a seemingly endless path of graves. The burial sites of young women were believed to evoke special emotions, while all migrant tombs symbolized national resilience and unity. Stories circulated of fiancés and men transporting marble headstones via wagons to remote cemeteries and making frequent visits to the graves of their beloveds. These migrant men, akin to McCrea’s unfortunate fiancé, remained unwed and seemingly chaste, remaining eternally devoted to youthful women even as they aged.
However, familiarity with these deceased individuals was not a prerequisite for viewing them as fictional romantic partners. Lucinda Duncan, one such young woman who passed away in 1863, garnered attention from passersby. Duncan’s grave, located outside Beowawe in northeast Nevada, became a point of interest for tourists following the completion of the transcontinental railroad in 1869 and the surge in road travel. Guidebooks detailed Lucinda’s story, portraying her as an 18-year-old who fell ill during her journey and passed away. Travelers were directed to look for the prominent cross marking her grave as trains sped across the Nevada desert. This cross was erected by railroad workers who were moved by the young woman’s story. Their emotional response prompted them to replace the decaying symbol with a substantial wooden structure, encircling it with wooden fencing—a gesture they may not have extended to “a member of the sterner sex,” as described by a book publisher.
The memory of this maiden was also preserved by settlers in the region, who repainted the cross annually and established a cemetery in Duncan’s honor. By tending to the maiden’s marker, the settlers associated her story more with vulnerability and suffering than with strength and aggression. Railroad employees also continued to watch over the maiden’s grave, as depicted in a May 1958 cover photo of the Southern Pacific bulletin showing five female workers reverently bowing their heads at the grave.
Nevertheless, this revered maiden was no more authentic than the chatbots that engage users today. For many, Duncan existed solely as a myth. In reality, Duncan, who was interred in a grave fortified with boulders to deter wolves, was not a young woman at the time of her passing in 1863; she was, in fact, an elderly woman, a mother, and a grandmother.
Railway promoters and settlers stumbled upon her remains and crafted their own narrative of a deceased young girl, despite the absence of wolves. Rail historians transformed Duncan—a woman with a rich, multifaceted life—into the image of a youthful, pure maiden to better fit the romanticized ideal. This fabricated tale endured at her grave until the Oregon-California Trails Association revealed the truth about Duncan in 1992, erecting an informational sign stating that Lucinda Duncan was 66 years old at the time of her demise. While some visitors expressed disappointment upon learning that Duncan did not align with the youthful maiden they had envisioned, the sign did not deter individuals from continuing to pay their respects.
The myth of the maiden has undergone shifts and adaptations over time. The maidens of the Overland Trail evolved into the distressed damsels of the 19th century. Today, these mythological damsels have been succeeded by AI-driven chatbots capable of embodying the roles of the deceased young woman or the devoted lover. The narrative of the deceased young woman has endured and expanded in the digital age, even though these bots are not entombed beneath rocks or commemorated with wooden crosses.
