Peculiar difficulties have been encountered in establishing the
foundations of the locks. The lowest of each flight are planted in deep
morasses, and could only be settled by removing vast masses of estuary
slime to a depth of 80 feet below sea-level. The sea was cut off and a
dredger introduced, which gradually cleared its way down to the bottom
rock. But the troubles which the American engineers will remember are
those which have presented themselves in the Culebra cutting. The
channel is nine miles long. Its average depth is between 100
and 200 feet, but at one point it reaches 490 feet. The formation
of the ground varies extraordinarily. At some points it is
rock; at others rock gives place to contorted layers of brilliantly
colored earth which is almost as restless as quicksand. Unfortunately,
it is at places where the cutting is deepest that its banks are most
unstable. The sides of the lowest 40 feet of the excavation—the actual
water channel—are cut vertically and not to a slope; in a firm
formation this reduces the amount of excavation, but in loose material
it must apparently have increased the risk of slides. But, however this
may be, slips on a gigantic scale were inevitable. The cutting is an
endeavor to form precipitous slopes of crumbling material under a
tropical rain-fall: it may be likened to molding in brown sugar under
the rose of a watering-pot. The banks have been in a state of constant
movement, and are broken up into irregular shelves and chasms, so that
at some points the channel resembles a natural ravine rather than an
artificial cutting. One thing is certain,—that for some years to come
the channel will only be kept open by constant assiduous dredging. But
it is, of course, easier to dredge out of water than to excavate in the
dry. The material excavated from the Culebra channel will aggregate
nearly one hundred million cubic yards. Some of it has been utilized in
reclaiming land; much has been carried out to sea and heaped into a
break-water three miles long, which runs out from the Panama or
southern end of the Canal, and will check a coast-ways current that
might, if uncontrolled, silt up the approach. The Canal is a triumph,
not of man's hands, but of machinery. Regiments of steam shovels attack
the banks, exhibiting a grotesque appearance of animal intelligence in
their behavior. An iron grabber is lowered by a crane, it pauses as if
to examine the ground before it, in search of a good bite, opens a pair
of enormous jaws, takes a grab, and, swinging round, empties its
mouthful onto a railway truck. The material is loosened for the shovels
by blasts of dynamite and, all the day through, the air is shaken by
explosions. Alongside each row of shovels stands a train in waiting;
over a hundred and fifty trains run seaward each day loaded with spoil.
The bed of the Canal is ribboned with railway tracks, which are shifted
as required by special track-lifting machines. The masonry work of the
locks is laid without hands. High latticed towers—grinding mills and
cranes combined—overhang the wall that is being built up. They take up
stone and cement by the truck-load, mix them and grind them—in fact,
digest them—and, swinging the concrete out in cages, gently and
accurately deposit it between the molding boards. How sharp is the
contrast between this elaborate steam machinery and the hand-labor of
the