If there was delay in the arrival of the Boston steamer, and the weather clear, we despatched our choice pigeon, Sam Patch, down the Sound, and he invariably came back with a slip of delicate tissue-paper tied under his wing, containing the news. We thus are apprised of the arrival of the steamer some two hours before any one else hears of her. Our men are at their cases; the steam is up in our pressroom, and our extras are always out first. We sometimes let one of our carriers fly to the Narrows, and in twenty minutes or so we know what is coming in, thirty miles from Sandy Hook Light. We despatch them as far as Albany, on any important mission; frequently to New Jersey, and in the summer-time they sometimes look in at Rockaway and let us know what is going on at the pavilion. We have a small sliding door in our observatory, on the top of the _Sun_ office, through which the little aerials pass. By sending off one every little while, we ascertain the details of whatever is important or interesting at any given point. They often fly at the rate of sixty miles an hour, easy! For example, a half-dozen will leave Washington at daylight this morning and arrive here about noon, beating the mail generally ten hours or so. They can come through from Albany in about two hours and a half, solar time. They fly exceedingly high, and keep so until they make the spires of the city, and then descend. We have not lost one by any accident, and believe ours is the only flock of value or importance in the country. We give this brief detail of “them pigeons” because our prying friends and neighbors in the newspaper way have such a meager, guesswork account of them; and because we dislike any mystery or artifice in our business operations. Speed and more speed was the newspaper demand of the hour, particularly among the penny papers. The _Sun_ and the _Herald_ had been battling for years, with competitors springing up about them, usually to die within the twelvemonth. Now the _Tribune_ had come to remain in the fray, even if it had not as much money to spend on news-gathering as the _Sun_ and the _Herald_. Edgar Allan Poe saw the fever that raged among the rivals. He had just returned to New York from Philadelphia with his sick wife and his mother. He was a recognized genius, but his worldly wealth amounted to four dollars and fifty cents. He had written “The Narrative of A. Gordon Pym,” “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” “The Gold Bug,” and other immortal stories, but his livelihood had been precarious. He had been in turn connected with the _Southern Literary Messenger_, the _Gentleman’s Magazine_, and _Graham’s Magazine_, and had twice issued the prospectuses for new periodicals of his own, fated never to be born.