by which comparative cheapness is produced arise out of the necessity of contending against the durability of the article by encouraging a new demand. If these did not exist, the supply would outrun the demand;—the price of the article would less and less repay the labour expended in its production; the manufacture of globes would cease till the old globes were worn out, and the few rich and scientific purchasers had again raised up a market. THE GHOST OF THE LATE MR. JAMES BARBER. A YARN ASHORE. ‘“Luck!” nonsense. There is no such thing. Life is not a game of chance any more than chess is. If you lose, you have no one but yourself to blame.’ This was said by a young lieutenant in the Royal Navy, to a middle-aged midshipman, his elder brother. ‘Do you mean to say that luck had nothing to do with Fine Gentleman Bobbin passing for lieutenant, and my being turned back?’ was the rejoinder. ‘Bobbin, though a dandy, is a good seaman, and—and——.’ The speaker looked another way, and hesitated. ‘I am _not_, you would add—if you had courage. But I say I am, and a better seaman than Bobbin.’ ‘Practically, perhaps, for you are ten years older in the service. But it was in the theoretical part of seamanship—which is equally important—that you broke down before the examiners,’ continued the younger officer, in tones of earnest but sorrowful reproach. ‘You never _would_ study.’ ‘I’ll tell you what it is, master Ferdinand,’ said the elderly middy, not without a show of displeasure. ‘I don’t think this is the correct sort of conversation to be going on between two brothers after a five years’ separation.’ The young lieutenant laid his hand soothingly on his brother’s arm, and entreated him to take what he said in good part. ‘Well, well!’ rejoined the middy, with a laugh half-forced. ‘Take care what you are about, or, by Jove, I’ll inform against you.’ ‘What for?’ ‘Why, for preaching without a license.—Besides, you were once as bad as you pretend I am.’ ‘I own it with sorrow; but I was warned in time by the wretched end of poor James Barber——’ ‘Of whom?’ asked the elder brother, starting back as he pushed his glass along the table. ‘You don’t mean Jovial Jemmy, as we used to call him; once my messmate in the brig “Rollock.”’ ‘Yes, I do.’ ‘What! dead?’ ‘Yes.’