Allow for a large amount of exaggeration, and there remains a certain foundation of truth.
The English spoken in Boston is purer than any to be heard elsewhere in the North. The voices are less harsh and nasal, the language ceases to be vurry, vurry Amurracan. If you think yourself in England, as you walk along the streets, the illusion becomes complete when you hear the well-bred people speak.
All the anecdotes told in America on the subject of Boston are satires upon the presumptuous character of the Bostonian, who considers Boston the centre of the universe.
Here is one of the many hundreds I heard:
A Boston man has lost his wife. As soon as telephonic communication is established between that city and Paradise, he rings and cries:
"Hello!"
"Hello!" from the other end.
"Is that you, Artemisia?"
"Yes, dear."
"Well, my love, and how do you like it up there?"