Happy Brithday to Jane and Ludwig

Today happens to be the birthday of two of my favorite people. The first? Ludwig von Beethoven, who was born on December 16, 1770. For Beethoven, today we celebrate his 250th birthday, certainly a major milestone, even if he didn't live to see it. Beethoven died at 56 in 1827, a mildly disturbing fact for those of us who have survived for many more years and yet have accomplished so very little. 

I've been listening to a lot of Beethoven today, thanks to Sirius satellite radio, Alexa, and the new Bose speaker that Diane bought me for Christmas. I told Dear Diane I'd wrap it up again and put it under the tree a few days before the 25th...maybe. But in the meantime I can listen to the work of this true musical genius.

Off the cuff I can name only one other person born 250 years ago: the poet, William Wordsworth, a man with the perfect last name for a poet. I knew of Wordsworth's birth year only because I recently read an article about him in the December issue of First Things -- "The Genius of Wordsworth" -- so don't think I'm all that smart. Wordsworth lived a long life, dying in 1850 at the age of 80.

Today I also discovered that William Clark, of Lewis and Clark fame, was born in 1770, specifically on August 1. In additon to his noted exploring, he fought in the War of 1812 and was later appointed governor of the Missouri Territory by President Madison. He seems to have had a rather full life and died in 1838 at the age of 68.

Another 1770 baby was Charles Adams, second son of our second president, John Adams. Charles was a most unfortunate man. An alcoholic who also carried on with women other than his wife, he was ultimately disowned by his father and died in 1800 at the age of 30, far short of 250. By the way, if you're ever in the Boston area, I suggest stopping by the Adams Home in Quincy, MA. It's truly worth a visit.

But enough of those 1770 folks. Besides Beethoven's I'm celebrating another famous person's birthday today: Jane Austen, who was born on December 16, 1775, making her a mere child at 245, five years younger than Ludwig. Sadly Jane died on July 18, 1817, at the too young age of 41. 

If you've been a longtime reader of this blog -- by the way, a very exclusive club -- you'll know I consider Jane Austen the greatest of the English novelists. I realize I'll catch a lot of grief for this, especially from all those fans of Dickens, or Hardy, or Bronte (take your pick), or Orwell, or Tolkien, among others. I enjoy every one of these authors and still read and reread some of them regularly, but no one campares to Jane. Those who don't understand Austen mistakenly call her a romantic. If you want to read a romantic, read one of the Brontes. Jane was no romantic. A master at depicting the human condition, she was an author who could apply the principles of moral theology to everyday situations, offering them to her readers with both humor and the sharp-edge, and sharp-eye, of mild cynicism. 

Today, as I celebrate Jane's birthday, I will begin to reread Persuasion, the last of her six novels, and probably my favorite. 

Here's a photo I took back in 2013 of the cottage where Jane Austen lived during her final years. It was owned by her brother and she lived there with her mother and sister. Located in Chawton, a lovely Hampshire village, the cottage is part of the Jane Austen Museum. We were fortunate to spend a glorious week in a tiny cottage next door.

And so, join me today as I wish these two people of genius, who have blessed the world with many decades of true enjoyment, a happy birthday!