At eight o’clock, I went to the office of the provost-marshal to get a pass over the bridge—for it will be recollected that the village of Harper’s Ferry is on the Virginia side—but he had not come in yet. Wishing to start as soon as possible, I thought I would try to face my way over. So, I went to the bridge, bade the sentinel a cheerful good-morning, and was moving on, when he said: “Have you a pass?” “No,” I replied, stopping. “I am not in the service. Is a pass necessary?” “No,” said he, after a slight pause. “Your crutch is pass enough. I suppose you got that in the Army?” “Yes,” I replied, “at Antietam. I am going up there to-day to see the old ground.” “How are you going?” “I’m going to walk.” “Walk! Why, can you do it?” “I think I can, although I have never yet walked so far on a crutch.” “You’ll have a good walk of it. It is fully twelve miles.” “Yes, so I have been told; but I could get no conveyance, and must try it.” “I hope you’ll get along well.” “Thank you.” I passed on. When I reached the middle of the bridge, I could not refrain from stopping to admire the scenery, which had never before appeared so grand to me. Harper’s Ferry presents a romantic picture indeed. All around are tall majestic wood covered hills that gaze down upon the village and bridge with quiet and awful dignity; and the beautiful river, wandering silently about among them, looks as if it would never find its way out. It was the twenty-fifth of March, the morning was pleasant, the sun was smiling on the heights and glancing down on the little village and the pure river. I thought I had never before seen such a beautiful sight. I passed over the bridge, turned to my left and walked up the tow-path of the canal. The first two or three miles I got over in an hour or so, very smoothly; but after that I felt weary at times, and found it an advantage to rest every mile or two. By a quarter to twelve o’clock I had reached the mouth of Antietam Creek, ten miles from Harper’s Ferry, and had now to leave the river and strike over the hills for Sharpsburg, two miles distant. Nothing had happened to me during my walk, save that a stray bullet from beyond the river had now and then whistled about my ears. They were no doubt fired at random by some of our pickets there who did not see me. I had now to cross the canal, in order to direct my course toward Sharpsburg. This was no easy matter. There was no bridge or lock near, and no ordinary jumper could clear it at a bound. I did fancy that I might make it in two jumps, but did not try. It was not full of water, and, seeing no plan but to wade through it, I removed my shoe, and other apparel liable to get saturated in the course of such an enterprise, and stalked in. I did not find it deeper than twenty inches, but its temperature felt very little above thirty-two degrees, Fahrenheit, and it made my foot and the calf of my leg ache clear through by the time I got across.