On the morning of the 21st of July, 1750, the church-bells were ringing a solemn yet cheerful peal, inviting the pious to the house of God. The sun shone brightly; the old man's heart was renewed in love and devotion, and even Friedemann's gloomy breast was penetrated with the beam of comfort, joy, and love. He had spent a part of the night in studying a masterpiece of his father's, the great Passion music. Full of the grandeur of the work, his face animated, he was walking to and fro in his father's chamber, pondering a similar work which he thought of undertaking.
Sebastian sat in his arm-chair, with folded arms, dressed ready for church. He followed with his eyes, smiling affectionately, the movements of his son. After a while, he said,
"I am glad the Passion music pleases you so well. I have a work of quite another kind, finished, the first idea of which I got from your Fughetten. And you are the first, after me, that shall see it."
He went to his desk, opened it, took out a sealed packet, and gave it to his son. It was inscribed, "To my son Friedemann."
"I meant it for you, in case of my death before I saw you," said the old man. "You may break the seal."
Friedemann opened the packet. It contained that nobly conceived, admirably executed work which from the day of its appearance has commanded the reverent admiration of all the initiated—The Art of Fugues, by Johann Sebastian Bach.
Friedemann looked over the manuscript with sparkling eyes.
"And my poor attempt," he cried, "has suggested a work destined to immortalize its author! I have not lived in vain. O my father! thanks. You have made me a noble present."
"You have rewarded me, Friedemann."
Sebastian went on to pour into his son's heart the kindly words of wisdom.