The life of Michael Angelo was a sad one; indeed, it is scarcely possible to recount a more pathetic story than was his. The misfortunes which came to the Medici were sharp griefs to him, and his temperament was such that he could not forget his woes. His family, too, looked to him for large sums of money, and while he lived most frugally they spent his earnings. In his old age he said, "Rich as I am, I have always lived like a poor man." [Illustration: FIG. 108.--STATUE OF MOSES. _By Michael Angelo._] In 1529, when Florence was under great political excitement, Michael Angelo was appointed superintendent of all the fortifications of the Florentine territory. In the midst of his duties he became aware of facts which determined him to fly. He went to Venice, and was proscribed as a rebel. We cannot stay here to inquire as to his wisdom in this, but must go on to say that at length he was so much needed that he was persuaded to return. Then he had the dreadful experiences of hope and fear, sickness and famine, and all the horrors of a siege, only to see his beloved home deprived of its freedom, and in the possession of those whom he despised and hated. To Michael Angelo this was far more bitter than any personal sorrow; he never recovered from its effects, and it was immediately after this that he worked in the Sacristy of San Lorenzo as if trying to kill himself. He was bold as he was angry. He was treated kindly, and advised to forget the past; but he never concealed his views. When his statue of Night was exhibited, verses were put upon it, according to the custom of the time; one verse read, "Night, whom you see slumbering here so charmingly, has been carved by an angel, in marble. She sleeps, she lives; waken her, if you will not believe it, and she will speak." To this Michael Angelo replied, "Sleep is dear to me, and still more that I am stone, so long as dishonor and shame last among us; the happiest fate is to see, to hear nothing; for this reason waken me not. I pray you, speak gently." He had great courage to speak his anger thus publicly in the midst of those who could easily destroy him. In 1537 or 1538 his father died, and the artist suffered terribly from his grief. He wrote a sonnet beginning: "Already had I wept and sighed so much. I thought all grief forever at an end, Exhaled in sighs, shed forth in bitter tears."