Today, I show a Laplander some drawings in my journal.
He is alarmed at the sight; takes off his cap, makes a bow,
and remains with his head inclined and his hand clapped to his
breast, mumbling some words to himself, and trembling
as if he is going to faint away. I’m told he’s afraid I am a conjuror,
the book a magical drum to which the Laplander resorts in times
of trouble with as much confidence as a devotee to the shrine of a saint.