The Uncanny Valley

“Young Charlotte” is an old folklore ballad that was widespread across North America. Various people have been credited with its creation, including William Lorenzo Carter, a blind poet from Vermont, circa 1834, and Seba Smith, a Maine journalist in 1843. Regardless of its origins or inspiration, it remains a warning against vanity.

Young Charlotte lived by the mountainside,

In a lonely, dreary spot;

No other dwelling for three miles round,

Except her father’s cot.

And yet on many a winter’s eve,

Young swains would gather there,

For her father kept a social abode,

And she was very fair.

Her father liked to see her dressed,

Just like some city belle;

She was the only child he had,

He loved his daughter well.

Her hair was black as raven’s wings,

Her skin was lily fair,

And her teeth were like the pearls of white,

None with her could compare.

At a village just sixteen miles off,

There’s a merry ball tonight,

Although the air is freezing cold,

Her heart is warm and light.

And there she watched with an anxious look,

‘Til a well-known voice she heard,

And driving up to the cottage door,

Young Charles in his sleigh appeared.

The mother to her daughter said,

“These blankets round you fold;

For it is a dreadful night, you know,

You’ll catch your death of cold.”

“Oh, no! Oh, no!” the darling cried,

She laughed like a gypsy queen,

“For to ride in blankets muffled up,

I never could be seen.”

My silken cloak, it’s quite enough –

You know it’s lined throughout.

Besides I have a silk mantle,

To tie my face about.”

The gloves and bonnet being on,

They jumped into the sleigh,

And away they did ride o’er the mountainside

And the hills so far away.

There is music in the sounds of bells,

As over the hills they go;

What a creaking wake the runners make,

As they bite the frozen snow.

And away they then go silently,

‘Til five cold miles were passed,

And Charles with these few frozen words,

The silence broke at last.

“Such a night as this I never knew,

My lines I scarce can hold.”

With a trembling voice young Charlotte cried,

“I am exceeding cold.”

He cracked the whip, he urged his steed

Much faster than before,

Until at last five other cold miles,

In silence they rode o’er.

“How very fast the freezing air

Is gathering on my brow.”

With a trembling voice young Charlotte cried,

“I’m growing warmer now.”

And away they did ride o’er the mountainside,

And through the pale star light,

Until the village inn they reached,

And the ballroom hove in sight.

When they reached the inn, young Charles jumped out,

And gave his hand to her,

“Why sit you there like a monument,

And have no power to stir?”

He called her once, he called her twice,

She answered not a word;

He called all for her hand again,

But still she never stirred.

He stripped the mantle off her brow,

And the pale stars on her shone,

And quickly into the lighted hall,

Her helpless form was born.

They tried all within their power,

Her life for to restore,

But Charlotte was a frozen corpse,

And is never to speak more.

He threw himself down by her side,

And the bitter tears did flow,

He said, “My dear and intended bride,

You never more shall know.”

He threw his arms around her neck,

He kissed her marble brow,

And his thoughts went back to the place where she said,

“I am growing warmer now.”

They bore her out into the sleigh,

And Charles with her rode home,

And when they reached the cottage door,

Oh, how her parents mourned!

They mourned the loss of their daughter dear,

And Charles mourned o’er her doom,

Until at last his heart did break,

Now they both slumber in one tomb.

I once had a sweet little doll, dears,

The prettiest doll in the world;

Her cheeks were so red and white, dears,

And her hair was so charmingly curled.

But I lost my poor little doll, dears,

As I played in the heath one day;

And I cried for her more than a week, dears,

But I never could find where she lay.

I found my poor little doll, dears,

As I played in the heath one day;

Folks say she is terribly changed, dears,

For her paint is all washed away,

And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears,

And her hair not the least bit curled;

Yet for old sakes' sake, she is still, dears,

Low on her little stool she sits

To make a nursing lap,

And cares for nothing but the form

Her little arms enwrap.

With hairless skull that gapes apart,

A broken plaster ball,

One chipped glass eye that squints askew,

And ne'er a nose at all -

No raddle left on grimy cheek,

No mouth that one can see -

It scarce discloses, at a glance,

What it was meant to be.

But something in the simple scheme

As it extends below

(It is the 'tidy' from my chair

That she is rumpling so) -

A certain folding of the stuff

That winds the thing about

(But still permits the sawdust gore

To trickle down and out) -

The way it curves around her waist,

On little knees outspread -

Implies a body frail and dear,

Whence one infers a head.

She rocks the scarecrow to and fro,

With croonings soft and deep,

A lullaby designed to hush

The bunch of rags to sleep.

I ask what rubbish has she there.

'My dolly,' she replies,

But tone and smile and gesture say,

'My angel from the skies.'

Inefflable the look of love

Cast on the hideous blur

That somehow means a precious face,

Most beautiful, to her.

The deftness and the tenderness

Of her caressing hands . . . . . .

How can she possibly divine

For what the creature stands?

Herself a nurseling, that has seen

The summers and the snows

Of scarce five years of baby life.

And yet she knows - she knows.

Just as a puppy of the pack

Knows unheard huntsman's call,

And knows it is a running hound

Before it learns to crawl.

Just as she knew, when hardly born,

The breast unseen before,

And knew - how well! - before they touched,

What milk and mouth were for.

So! by some mystic extra-sense

Denied to eyes and ears,

Her spirit communes with its own

Beyond the veil of years.

She hears unechoing footsteps run

On floors she never trod,

Sees lineaments invisible

As is the face of God -

Forms she can recognise and greet,

Though wholly hid from me.

Alas! a treasure that is not,

And that may never be.

The majesty of motherhood

Sits on her baby brow;

Before her little three-legged throne

My grizzled head must bow.

That dingy bundle in her arms

Symbols immortal things -

A heritage, by right divine,

Beyond the claims of kings.

She said: "I am too old to play

With dolls," and put them all away,

Into a box, one rainy day.

I think she must have felt some pain,

She looked so long into the rain,

Then sighed: "I'll bring you out again;

"For I'll have little children too,

With sunny hair and eyes of blue

And they will play and play with you.

"And now good-bye, my pretty dears;

There in the dark for years and years,

Dream of your little mother's tears."

Eglantine, Pierrot and Marie Claire,

Topsy and Tiny and Teddy Bear,

Side by side in the coffer there.

Time went by; one day she kneeled

By a wooden Cross in Flanders Field,

And wept for the One the earth concealed;

And made a vow she would never wed,

But always be true to the deathless dead,

Until the span of her life be sped.

* *

* * *

* *

More years went on and they made her wise

By sickness and pain and sacrifice,

With greying tresses and tired eyes.

And then one evening of weary rain,

She opened the old oak box again,

And her heart was clutched with an ancient pain

For there in the quiet dark they lay,

Just as they were when she put them away...

O but it seemed like yesterday!

Topsy and Tiny and Teddy Bear,

Eglantine, Pierrot and Marie Claire,

Ever so hopefully waiting there.

But she looked at them through her blinding tears,

And she said: "You've been patient, my pretty dears;

You've waited and waited all these years.

"I've broken a promise I made so true;

But my heart, my darlings, is broken too:

No little Mothers have I for you.

"My hands are withered, my hair is grey;

Yet just for a moment I'll try to play

With you as I did that long dead day...

"Ah no, I cannot. I try in vain . . .

I stare and I stare into the rain . . .

I'll put you back in your box again.

"Bless you, darlings, perhaps one day,

Some little Mother will find you and play,

And once again you'll be glad and gay.

"But when in the friendly dark I lie,

No one will ever love you as I . . . .

My little children . . . good-bye . . . good-bye."

Two fine French dolls with their frills and laces,

Their ribbons and curls and dimpling faces,

Went strutting about with their airs and graces,

And said to an old rag doll,

You raggedy, taggedy, dowd,

Don’t you just wish you belonged to this crowd.

No nice looking hands no well slippered feet,

To Clumsy and to Dumpty to ever look neat.

A Figure all humpety, mumpety, lumps,

As if you had a bad case of the mumps.

Mere scraps for your clothes with no trimmings at all,

It must be just awful to be a rag doll.

The rag doll smiled with a smile contented,

She would have winked but the beads prevented.

And she said to the fine French dolls,

I wouldn’t change places with you folks at all.

Your faces will crack if you happen to fall,

Your bodies will spill sawdust if snap goes a stitch.

It will take glue to repair and fix.

You are dressed up so much you don’t dare to sit down

For fear you will rumple the frills on your gown,

You are to fine to hug

You are to fine to kiss,

Pray what is the pleasure of living like this?

As well be a picture and hang on the wall,

It must be just awful to be a French doll.