About the Book
Excerpt from Phytologia, Vol. 75: An International Journal to Expedite Plant Systematic, Phytogeographical and Ecological Publication; December, 1993 George Hinton, his son Jaime and his grandson George represent three generations of plant collectors in Mexico, all avid students of that nation's flora. I never met the deceased member of this trio, but I know personally and correspond erratically with the second and third generations, both zealous collectors like their forefather George. Since this introduction is largely meant to accompany excerpts from a letter written by Jaime, I will digress here to attempt some encapsulation of Jaime Hinton's physiognomy, personality, character, and style. Jaime is a wiry, resilient man about 5 feet 10 inches tall with the gait of a western cowhand, what with his certain, unobtrusive, strides and his ambience of belonging to his particular territory. A Mexican citizen, but of British parents, green-eyed and greying at the temples, he first walked up to me wearing a large Tarascan sombrero and a wisp of smile, extending his hand, Prof. Turner, I assume, eyeing my newly married quite lovely wife Gayle (25 years or more younger than either of us) as if she might be a remarkable flower to be plucked precariously off some Mexican blufl' given the odd discovery, wherever. Good sensible man, I thought, excellent tastes. And, later, settling down as his guest at Rancho Aguililla, I marveled at his conversational abilities about plants, architecture, peoples, commerce, and world affairs. He was a consummate scholar and litterateur, and as to bearing he reminded me right off as a protagonist from one of John Huston's westerns, Treasure of the Sierra Madre, perhaps. Whatever; I was enthralled. Later my wife said, An attractive man, Jaime, I knew then that his peripheral glances were properly catalogued. The day after our first meeting Jaime insisted that the two of us take a short field trip to the mountains east of Cerro Potosi. He took off in his souped-up Ford at 100 plus miles per hour. Truly, the fastest I'd ever traveled in an automobile. When I tactfully complained at the speed (what's the he grinned, like Socrates might have, given the same admonition from his friends about sipping too fast his extract of hemlock, and responded Hell, I can't wait to get in the field, not much time left in the day, or something like that, as if I too were wrapped up in his provocative enthusiasm. Anyway, he slowed down to 95 or so for the rest of the paved road, then down to 50 on dirt, and finally lurched to a stop high up in the hills along an overgrown semitropical gully, taking off upslope like a botanist bewildered, collecting what was in flower or fruit, commenting on environmental degradation, the catholic condition, confessions, confusions, whatever. Ten years older than me, perhaps, he was clearly better shod with a better bridle. About the Publisher Forgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.com This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.
