Far to the South, Mr. President, separated from this section by a line—­once defined in irrepressible difference, once traced in fratricidal blood, and now, thank God, but a vanishing shadow—­lies the fairest and richest domain of this earth.  It is the home of a brave and hospitable people.  There is centered all that can please or prosper humankind.  A perfect climate above a fertile soil yields to the husbandman every product of the temperate zone.  There, by night the cotton whitens beneath the stars, and by day the wheat locks the sunshine in its bearded sheaf.  In the same field the clover steals the fragrance of the wind, and tobacco catches the quick aroma of the rains.  There are mountains stored with exhaustless treasures; forests—­vast and primeval; and rivers that, tumbling or loitering, run wanton to the sea.  Of the three essential items of all industries—­cotton, iron and wood—­that region has easy control.  In cotton, a fixed monopoly—­in iron, proven supremacy—­in timber, the reserve supply of the Republic.  From this assured and permanent advantage, against which artificial conditions cannot much longer prevail, has grown an amazing system of industries.  Not maintained by human contrivance of tariff or capital, afar off from the fullest and cheapest source of supply, but resting in divine assurance, within touch of field and mine and forest—­not set amid costly farms from which competition has driven the farmer in despair, but amid cheap and sunny lands, rich with agriculture, to which neither season nor soil has set a limit—­this system of industries is mounting to a splendor that shall dazzle and illumine the world.  That, sir, is the picture and the promise of my home—­a land better and fairer than I have told you, and yet but fit setting in its material excellence for the loyal and gentle quality of its citizenship.  Against that, sir, we have New England, recruiting the Republic from its sturdy loins, shaking from its overcrowded hives new swarms of workers, and touching this land all over with its energy and its courage.  And yet—­while in the Eldorado of which I have told you but fifteen per cent of its lands are cultivated, its mines scarcely touched, and its population so scant that, were it set equidistant, the sound of the human voice could not be heard from Virginia to Texas—­while on the threshold of nearly every house in New England stands a son, seeking, with troubled eyes, some new land in which to carry his modest patrimony, the strange fact remains that in 1880 the South had fewer northern-born citizens than she had in 1870—­fewer in ’70 than in ’60.  Why is this?  Why is it, sir, though the section line be now but a mist that the breath may dispel, fewer men of the North have crossed it over to the South, than when it was crimson with the best blood of the Republic, or even when the slaveholder stood guard every inch of its way?