The pride of the father's heart was the collection of ancient vestments, which we consider the finest we saw at any of the missions. In addition to those belonging to Santa Ynez, the vestments of La Purisima are treasured here. Most of them were made in Spain over a hundred years ago and they are still in a surprisingly perfect condition. Rare silks and satins of purest white or of rich and still unfaded color were heavily broidered with sacred emblems in gold and silver and there was something appropriate to every festival and ceremony of the church. "Many of them are worth a thousand dollars each," said Father Buckler, "but no money could buy them, for that matter. Yes, I wear them on state occasions and they are greatly admired and even reverenced by my parishioners."
A more gruesome collection—a queer whim of the father's—was a case of glass bottles and jars containing all manner of reptiles and vermin discovered in or about the old building during the restoration work. There were snakes of all sizes and species, lizards, scorpions, tarantulas, and other venomous creatures, all safely preserved in alcohol.
"They are not very common now," said the father, "but my collection shows some of the inhabitants of the mission when I first came here."
When we came out again into the pleasant arcade, Father Buckler called our attention to another of his diversions more agreeable to think upon—his collection of cacti and flowering shrubs. Several of the former were in bloom and we were especially delighted with the delicate, pink, lily-shaped flower of the barrel cactus which, the father assured us, is very rare indeed.
We thanked the kindly old priest for his courtesy, not forgetting a slight offering to assist in his good work of rescuing Santa Ynez from decay, and bade him farewell.
"We are always glad to get acquainted with the mission priests. They have proved good fellows, without exception," we declared, "and we hope we may find Father Buckler here on our next visit."
"I was not asked to come here—I was sent," said the father, "and I hope they may not send me elsewhere on account of my years; but if the order comes I must go."
He laughingly declined to be photographed in his "working clothes" and waved us a cordial farewell as we betook ourselves to our steed of steel, which always patiently awaited our return. We were glad as we swept over the fine road through the beautiful vale that we were not of the Franciscan order—we would rather not walk, thank you!
The five-mile run from the mission to Los Olivos was a beautiful one, through oak-studded meadows stretching to the foot of mighty mountains, about whose summits the purple evening shadows were gathering. Just at twilight we came into the poor-looking little town of a dozen or so frame "shacks" and cottages.
It had been a strenuous day, despite the fact that we had covered only fifty-four miles—the distance via Gaviota Pass. The San Marcos route is fifteen miles shorter, but our trip that way took no less than four hours, three of which were spent on the heavy grades of the pass. The Gaviota road much of the way was adobe, which, being translated into Middle West parlance, would be "black gumbo," and a recent heavy rain had made it dreadfully rutty and rough. We were weary enough to wish for a comfortable inn, but Los Olivos did not look very promising. It chanced, however, that we were agreeably disappointed in our expectations—at the edge of the village was a low, rambling building which they told us was the hotel. Here we found one of the old-time country inns to which the coming motor had given a new lease of life and renewed prosperity. Mattei's Tavern evidently gets its chief patronage from the motor, for no fewer than seven cars brought five or more passengers each on the evening of our arrival. Some were fishing parties—the Santa Ynez River is famous for trout—and not all the guests remained over night, though many of them did. Our rooms, while on the country hotel order, were clean and comfortable. But the dinner—I have eaten meals in pretentious city hotels not so good as that served to us by the bewhiskered old waiter at Mattei's Tavern. We had made a guess as to the nationality of the proprietor—Swiss—and the waiter confirmed it. We had stopped at hotels with Swiss managers before, in many countries besides Switzerland, and always found in evidence the same knack of doing things right. Mattei himself was on the job looking after the details to insure the maximum of comfort to his guests, and, like the manager of the Kaiserhof at Lucerne, he was at the door to bid us good-bye and Godspeed.