Dear Readers:

In honour of our most beloved authoress’ birthday (16 December 1775), I wrote the following ‘letter’ as a way to commemorate the day. Please be aware that many of the words I used were taken directly from her letters (as collected and edited by Deirdre Le Faye) so some of what you will read are direct quotes from Jane Austen. However in pursuit of the feel of an authentic letter, I omitted quotation marks in all instances. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Happy Birthday Jane!

Saturday 16 December 2006
My dearest Cassandra,

The letter which I have this moment received from you has diverted me beyond moderation. I could die of laughter at it and accept from the finest comic writer of the present age her wishes on this occasion. Here is a day indeed, my 231st birthday! I give you great credit for remembering the event but I must confess I find only more amusement in the fact that you will soon be 234. I dare say my dear sister you are now indeed to be considered in all circles, a spinster.

As your last letter has given me such a great deal of pleasure, I wonder where shall I begin this letter? Which of all the important nothings shall I tell you first? Perhaps it is best that I should tell you the world in 2006 appears to be a Scene of Dissipation & vice, and that I begin to find my Morals corrupted. You would be much shocked to hear of such exceeding debaucheries as I might be obliged to give account—I can scarce begin to explain it. Indeed if could I catalogue for you the differences of society and manner in this age, this letter would take many more sheets than I have at my disposal to write on. However, I feel obliged to restrain severity of judgment upon the present generation; I cannot be harsh with them! You may rightly ask why—and quite naturally I shall answer—my vanity is flattered in the great deal of admiration which I now receive.

I am certain you are all astonishment but indeed it is the truth. You may remember when P&P was first published and Henry—in all his affection and partiality—would immediately reveal to those ignorant of the authoress’ identity, that it was I who wrote it. I am afforded no such luxury of anonymity in the present day! Indeed it is quite the opposite! And I must tell you, with all the sincere happiness I can convey, that your little sketch of me is quite famous—it hangs in the National Portrait Gallery in London. How could it happen? I dare say I don’t know, but it must make you exceedingly pleased. But I have digressed and I return now to my novel readers who seek after my little bits of Ivory, two Inches wide. Indeed they are delightful people—I find amongst them more approbation than my imagination could ever have supplied. They are great readers and examiners of all my work—it is gratifying to know that the Dashwood’s, the Bennet’s, the Bertram’s, the Woodhouse’s, the Morland’s, the Eliot’s and the many other dear children of my novels, live on in the hearts and minds of countless readers! Such flattery I never expected to find but I shall brook no argument against it. Do not think me vain for enjoying the notoriety; for I shall ever remain your dear sister Jane…

I neglected to mention that my room in Chawton is like as it ever was, snug with everything comfortable around me. I send you my best love and one last reflection: I have thought it all over—and inspite of the shame of being so much older; I feel thankfulness that I am as happy now as I ever was.

Yours affectionately J. Austen