while one pair of breeches
were supposed to be at Daly's Bridge, and the others at Ahaseragh,
were presumed by the world at large to be very grievous.

But the personal appearance of Mr. Daly on hunting mornings, was not
a matter of indifference. It was not that he wore beautiful pink
tops, or came out guarded from the dust by little aprons, or had his
cravat just out of the bandbox, or his scarlet coat always new, and
in the latest fashion, nor had his hat just come from the shop in
Piccadilly with the newest twist to its rim. But there was something
manly, and even powerful about his whole apparel. He was always the
same, so that by men even in his own county, he would hardly have
been known in other garments. The strong, broad brimmed high hat,
with the cord passing down his back beneath his coat, that had known
the weather of various winters; the dark, red coat, with long swallow
tails, which had grown nearly black under many storms; the dark, buff
striped waistcoat, with the stripes running downwards, long, so as to
come well down over his breeches; the breeches themselves, which were
always of leather, but which had become nearly brown under the hands
of Barney Smith or his wife, and the mahogany top-boots, of which the
tops seemed to be a foot in length, could none of them have been worn
by any but Black Daly. His very spurs must have surely been made for
him, they were in length and weight; and general strength of leather,
so peculiarly his own. He was unlike other masters of hounds in this,
that he never carried a horn; but he spoke to his hounds in a loud,
indistinct chirruping voice, which all County Galway believed to be
understood to every hound in the park.

One other fact must be told respecting Mr. Daly. He was a
Protestant--as opposed to a Roman Catholic. No one had ever known
him go to church, or speak a word in reference to religion. He was
equally civil or uncivil to priest and parson when priest or parson
appeared in the field. But on no account would he speak to either
of them if he could avoid it. But he had in his heart a thorough
conviction that all Roman Catholics ought to be regarded as
enemies by all Protestants, and that the feeling was one entirely
independent of faith and prayerbooks, or crosses and masses. For him
fox-hunting--fox-hunting for others--was the work of his life, and
he did not care to meddle with what he did not understand. But he
was a Protestant, and Sir Nicholas Bodkin