To come to our own day, I can imagine no more delightful excursion into the brighter side of Tower romance than the wholly fictitious but happily conceived Savoy opera, _The Yeomen of the Guard_. Who can look upon the White Tower here, after seeing its model on the Savoy stage, and yet not remember the delicious melodies of the opera? The very spirit of Tower times of long ago, of Tower griefs and joys, of Tower quips and cranks and lilting songs, seems brought before us in the theatre when, on the rising of the curtain, we look across Tower Green, see the gable-end of St. Peter’s Church, and have the huge bulk of the central keep reaching up toward the blue heaven. And the little comedy brings the old Tower nearer to our hearts, and, perhaps, to our understanding. We see it is quite possible for men to love and laugh and dance even if to-morrow they see a comrade meet death on the very spot where they had held merriment with the strolling players. It is all very human, very full of life’s sunshine, though it is felt and known that behind it all there is suffering bravely borne and deeper sorrow yet to come. But we applaud the daring of librettist and musician; complete success has justified all. Here, again, we are safe in master hands. We have been led down a by-way in Tower history by plot and counter-plot, with fragrant music for our cheer. When we come again to the actual Tower of to-day, lying, it may be, under a summer sky, we should like to find Phœbe sitting on the Green at her spinning-wheel, singing “When maiden loves,” or see Jack Point teaching the surly jailor and “assistant tormentor,” Wilfred Shadbolt, to be a jester.