The worst of it was I was not sitting erect, but stretched almost at full length in the boat, and one leg was entangled inside by the strap of my bag. In the moments following (that seem minutes in such a case) a gush of thoughts went through the mind while the poor little boat was still turning over, until at last I gave a spring from my awkward position to jump into the water. The jerk released the canoe from the rock, but only the head and arms of its captain fell into the river--though in a most undignified _pose_, which was soon laughed off, when my seat was recovered, with a wet head and dripping sleeves! However, this little _faux pas_ quite wakened and sobered me, and I looked in half shame to the bank to see if any person had witnessed the absurd performance. And it was well to have done with sentiment and reveries, for the river had now got quite in earnest about going along. Permit me again to invite attention to the washerwomen on the river; for this institution, which one does not find thus floating on our streams in England, becomes a very frequent object of interest if you canoe it on the Continent. [Illustration: "Washing Barge."] As the well in Eastern countries is the recognised place for gossiping, and in colder climes a good deal of politics is settled in the barber's shop, so here in fluvial districts the washing barge is the forum of feminine eloquence. The respectability of a town as you approach it is shadowed forth by the size and ornaments of the _blanchisseuses'_ float; and as there are often fifty faces seen at once, the type of female loveliness may be studied for a district at a time. While they wash they talk, and while they talk they thump and belabour the clothes; but there is always some idle eye wandering which speedily will catch sight of the Rob Roy canoe. In smaller villages, and where there is no barge for them to use, the women have to do without one, and kneel on the ground, so that even in far-off parts of the river we shall find them there. A flat sounding whack! whack! tells me that round the corner we shall come upon at least a couple of washerwomen, homely dames, with brown faces and tall caps, who are wringing, slapping, and scrubbing the "linge." Though this may encourage the French cotton trade, I rejoice that my own shirts are of strong woollen stuff, which defies their buffeting.