Most of the young and those in the prime of life were thick-set, red-faced men of good medium height and enormous strength who prided themselves on the weights they could carry and boasted of never having had “an e-ache nor a pa-in” in their lives. The elders stooped, had gnarled and swollen hands and walked badly, for they felt the effects of a life spent out of doors in all weathers and of the rheumatism which tried most of them. These elders wore a fringe of grey whisker beneath the jaw, extending from ear to ear. The younger men sported drooping walrus moustaches. One or two, in advance of the fashion of their day, were clean-shaven; but as Sunday was the only shaving day, the effect of either style became blurred by the end of the week.

They still spoke the dialect, in which the vowels were not only broadened, but in many words doubled. Boy was boo-oy, coal, coo-al, pail, pay-ull, and so on. In other words, syllables were slurred, and words were run together, as brenbu’er for bread and butter. They had hundreds of proverbs and sayings and their talk was stiff with simile. Nothing was simply hot, cold, or coloured; it was as hot as hell, as cold as ice, as green as grass, or as yellow as a guinea. A botched-up job done with insufficient materials was like Dick’s hatband that went half-way round and tucked; to try to persuade or encourage one who did not respond was putting a poultice on a wooden leg. To be nervy was to be like a cat on hot bricks; to be angry, mad as a bull; or any one might be poor as a rat, sick as a dog, hoarse as a crow, as ugly as sin, full of the milk of human kindness, or stinking with pride. A temperamental person was said to be one o’ them as is either up on the roof or down the well. The dialect was heard at its best on the lips of a few middle-aged men, who had good natural voices, plenty of sense, and a grave, dignified delivery. Mr. Frederick Grisewood of the BBC gave a perfect rendering of the old Oxfordshire dialect in some broadcast sketches a few years ago. Usually, such imitations are maddening to the native born; but he made the past live again for one listener.

The men’s incomes were the same to a penny; their circumstances, pleasures, and their daily field work were shared in common; but in themselves they differed; as other men of their day differed, in country and town. Some were intelligent, others slow at the uptake; some were kind and helpful, others selfish; some vivacious, others taciturn. If a stranger had gone there looking for the conventional Hodge, he would not have found him.