A labor of love about labors of love. Both the OED itself, obviously, but also the heretofore mostly unknown obsessives who pored through all manner of materials (apparently the Times of London is the top source for quotations, but wow, are there lots of others; this must be the longest of long tails) to send in essentially infinite quantities of slips tracing different strands of usage of common terms. You could, I suppose, easily tell this story through a Marxist lens, as the vast majority of the labor was unpaid, though usually (not always) acknowledged in some way (amusingly, Marx's daughter was among those seeking remuneration for what sounds like not especially perspicacious work-product), but Ogilvie instead emphasizes the endeavor's democratic character, the way that many outside the elite universities could participate in the endeavor. This includes a good number of feminists, a terrifying quantity of vicars, many gentlewomen, some mostly-forgotten novelists, an enthusiastic pornographer or two, and three known murderers. Organized, of course, A-Z (U is for United States, tracing the large and surpassingly excited--much more so than in England--American academic, as well as popular, engagement in the project), the book details the fascinating processes of organization of information as well as the social networks that connected and brought in new researchers, not to mention the global spread of submissions, which meant that the traces of empire are visible in the words that are included. (Fun little bonus discussion of how much Australian English was included, as well as a charming closing story about a contemporary word hunter who sent in bales of sources right up to his death.) Fun facts: vegetarian dates to 1842, vegan to 1944 (this is why we have the OED, no?); the hardest words to trace were the commonplace ones; there was a complicated symbolic system by which compilers' work was traced, including a fairly good number of deadbeats--though seemingly many fewer in proportion than the Grimms dealt with.
The most delightfully Victorian British passage? Two good candidates: a retired surgeon named James Dixon sends OED editor James Murray a sealed envelope inside another envelope, so terrifying are the contents. The inner envelope contains a plea that Murray not include the word condom ("a contrivance used by fornicators, to save themselves from a well-deserved clap") in the dictionary, on the grounds that it is not worthy of inclusion and, worse, is foreign: "everything obscene comes from France." Or this droll summary: Reverend Kirby Trimmer "amassed enough knowledge about Norfolk's plants that in 1866 he published a book on the subject....Ever eagle-eyed, while looking for plants he often noticed the fungi growing nearby (at least in East Norfolk) and began to collect them too, compiling 'A list of fungi met with in East Norfolk, 1842-1872.' This remains unpublished, but you can read it in the Norfolk Record Office."