I write to you in a state of some excitement, having recently concluded a most agreeable correspondence with Mr. Warren, a gentleman of discerning taste and a valued patron of the Ruseletter, on the subject of a rather ingenious and delightfully romantic card trick by a Mr. Cameron Francis, entitled “Coupling”. You will find it documented in Out of Sleight, and, more recently, published within the pages of John Carey and Friends, Volume 2. Should you be unacquainted with it, I urge you most sincerely to remedy the situation at your earliest convenience.

It was Mr. Warren’s enthusiastic approbation of the trick that set my own mind to work. While I confess to a genuine admiration for the original, I could not help but feel that it might bear a fuller handling—one worthy of a complete pack of cards—and, moreover, that it deserved a presentation of greater romantic consequence. The result of these deliberations is “Perfect Partners”, which I humbly offer to your repertoire as a token of my earnest esteem.

The presentation is, I venture to say, an example of what I have taken to calling “conversational card magic”—that agreeable style of conjuring in which the performance is woven so naturally into polite conversation that one’s audience scarcely perceives the distinction between the two. The conversation in question concerns the works of a Miss Jane Austen and the Regency card game of whist—a most fitting subject, as the trick’s denouement involves thirteen cards, which is precisely the number dealt to each player in a hand of whist. Should you have long sought an occasion to introduce Miss Austen into your card work—and I cannot imagine who among us has not—I believe you will find this trick most satisfactory.

I have taken the liberty of composing a lengthy blog post on the romantic connections between whist, classic literature, and the conjuring arts, should you find yourself at leisure to peruse it. Alternatively, you may proceed directly to the free tutorial. The requirements are modest: an overhand shuffle and a Swivel Cut. Nothing that should tax a person of your obvious accomplishments in card table artifice.

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And should Valentine’s Day happen to find you in want of a suitable romantic diversion—well, the timing, I think, could scarcely be improved upon. ❤

I would also venture to solicit your opinions by way of the Ruseletter Reader Survey, should you find yourself possessed of a spare moment or two. Your candid reflections on this newsletter are, I assure you, received with the utmost gratitude and will be carefully attended to.

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I remain, dear Reader, your most humble and obedient servant in matters of cards and conjuring.

Yours Magically,

Mr. Jacobs

P.S. Attentive readers will have observed that this letter is written in the style of Jane Austen’s personal correspondence—a small indulgence, given the subject matter. Should you wish to explore the real thing, her letters are available to read in full at The Republic of Pemberley. Several original letters also survive in the collection at Jane Austen’s House Museum in Chawton, Hampshire—including a delightful letter written the day after Pride and Prejudice was first published, in which Austen describes reading it aloud to an unsuspecting neighbour without revealing that she was the author. One rather suspects she would have made an excellent magician!

For those wishing to acquaint themselves further with Austen’s correspondence, I would also commend this charming video from the Morgan Library and Museum’s exhibition “A Lively Mind: Jane Austen at 250”, in which co-curators Dale Stinchcomb and Juliette Wells discuss some of their favourite letters—offering a most agreeable introduction to the wit, warmth, and quiet determination of the woman behind the novels.

“Kia whakatōmuri te haere whakamua.”

— Traditional Māori Proverb

This beautiful piece of Māori wisdom translates as “I walk backwards into the future with my eyes fixed on my past.” For struggling magicians constantly seeking the next magic trick or the latest method, this proverb offers profound guidance. Progress in magic doesn’t come from endlessly reaching forward—it comes from walking backwards into what you already know, studying the fundamentals you think you’ve mastered, and deepening your understanding of the classics (that have survived for good reason).

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Every great magician understood this. Houdini didn't just study Robert-Houdin; he absorbed his essence and transformed it into something uniquely his own (then, bizarrely, tried to destroy his legacy, but let’s ignore that for now). Vernon didn't just dissect Malini; he reinterpreted and reassembled his techniques into a new form of natural magic. Malone didn't just learn from Ed Marlo; he internalised his wisdom. They didn't advance by ignoring their lineage—they moved forward by walking backwards. No plutonium-powered DeLorean required—just the willingness to study your past to unlock your future.

Think of it as your own magical time machine—but instead of needing 1.21 jigowatts and a flux capacitor, all you need is curiosity about your own repertoire.

Instead of learning something new this week, take a moment to reflect on one effect you think you already know and honestly examine it: Who created it? What problem were they solving? How has it evolved? The future of your magic isn't in the trick you haven't learned yet—it's in the one that you already perform.

Walk backwards, fellow conjurer. The future is waiting!

Yours Magically,

Marty

P.S. Great Scott, who knew Back to the Future and ancient Māori wisdom had so much in common?!

We are the watching magicians
Scrolling through our feeds
We are the buying magicians
Who never plant the seeds
Wizards without wonder
Reviews without shows
We are the hollow magicians
Whom no audience knows!1

Update: I fed this poem to an AI image generator, and this was the output. I presume the skeletal-looking guy in the back is the hollow magician. There’s something both beautiful and horrifying about this image—it’s certainly the stuff of nightmares! I welcome interpretations of this weird visual in the comments.

Here’s my interpretation: The skeletal magician in the background is the “Hollow Magician”. He is immersed—no drowning—in a sea of trivial, superficial magic tricks. The child symbolises our lost inner wonder, guiding the magician back to the real world of magic. The sleeping woman signifies our collective need to wake up from our shopping-induced slumber. Wow, I’ve had way too much coffee!