IT should have come as no surprise that before the ink was dry on last Friday’s Oxford Mail there were answers to my inquiries about Edgar George Wilson, who drowned 120 years ago next month after rescuing a couple of lads from the Thames.

There is a monument dedicated to him beside the footbridge that crosses the Hinksey Stream near where it joins the main river.

Although I had passed the monolith scores of times, that he was 21 when he died was all I knew.

Stephanie Jenkins and Shirley Martin sent reports from Jackson’s Oxford Journal, that revered publication which recorded life (and death) in the city for 100 years.

It told a story of an assistant chemist with Luff’s dispensary in Cornmarket Street, a delicate young man whose experiences with water were notoriously dodgy, who leapt into the river without even removing his hat.

The boys were saved, but Edgar drowned.

He was the son of the Rev George Wilson, Pastor of Commercial Road Baptist Chapel, a devoted son and brother who, it was said was something of the runt in the litter, always put other people first. He certainly did that day!

In the same article was a report of the inquest held at the home of his father the following day.

Compared with the time between an incident and an inquest these days, the speed seems almost indecent.

The Coroner, Mr EL Hussey, on being told the jury’s verdict (the house must have been big to accommodate a jury et al) that Edgar had accidentally drowned, said, in as many words, one had heard medals were given for such bravery by the Royal Humane Society, but seeing he wouldn’t be around to receive it, there was nothing doing.

I bet that cheered up his family!

STEPHANIE and Shirley also sent a report of the unveiling of the memorial some months later.

It had cost £22, cash collected by Oxford YMCA and made up mostly by threepenny donations.

More than 200 people were there including the two lads – nine-year-old Christopher Green and ten-year-old Thomas Hazell – who were treated to seats on the official platform.

The unveiling was done by the Mayor of Oxford, Mr W Gray, father of the future founder of the Oxford Mail, Frank Gray.

There were speeches galore, including one from a Mr W J Gough who said a certificate on velum from the Royal Humane Society had been received.

It paid tribute to Edgar, but he repeated that had he survived he would have been entitled to an honorary award from the society.

Cold comfort once more for the family. Was ‘posthumous’ not in the dictionary of 1889?

TWO days later, Helen Neilson, a member of the Tuesday Totties, a group of cheerful women who stride out across the county once a month, and whom I met as they sallied forth one cold January morn, wrote to say that later that same day they had met an Australian women on the riverbank, who was a mine of information on Edgar Wilson's actions.

“Hopefully she will read your article and get in touch,” she wrote.

So far she hasn’t, but I travel in hope.

LEARNING more about Edgar Wilson has made me determined to turn up at the memorial on June 19, the 120th anniversary of his brave yet doomed plunge, and propose a toast in lemonade (he was a Baptist, remember) to a young man who acted first and never had the chance to think about it later.

Does anyone fancy joining me for the occasion?

Modern-day thinking, where so often ‘not getting involved’ is the creed, might regard him as foolhardy, knowing he was a duff swimmer and a sickly chap to boot.

But two little lads survived and hopefully thrived.

While on the subject, are any of their descendants still around Osney?

cabbagesandkings@oxfordmail.co.uk