exactly the cavea, the corner, the tier, and the seat for the person holding it.  Tessarae of this kind have been found on which were Greek and Roman characters (a proof that the Greek would not have been understood without translation).  Upon one of them is inscribed the name of AEschylus, in the genitive; and hence it has been inferred that his “Prometheus” or his “Persians” must have been played on the Pompeian stage, unless, indeed, this genitive designated one of the wedge-divisions marked out by the name or the statue of the tragic poet.  Others have mentioned one of these counters that announced the representation of a piece by Plautus,—­the Casina; but I can assure you that the relic is a forgery, if, indeed, such a one ever existed.

You should, then, before entering, provide yourself with a real tessera, which you may purchase for very little money.  Plautus asked that folks should pay an as apiece.  “Let those,” he said, “who have not got it retire to their homes.”  The price of the seats was proclaimed aloud by a crier, who also received the money, unless the show was gratuitously offered to the populace by some magistrate who wished to retain public favor, or some candidate anxious to procure it.  You handed in your ticket to a sort of usher, called the designator, or the locarius, who pointed out your seat to you, and, if required, conducted you thither.  You could then take your place in the middle tier, at the top of which was the statue of Marcus Holconius Rufus, duumvir, military tribune, and patron of the colony.  This statue had been set up there by order of the decurions.  The holes hollowed in the pedestal by the nails that secured the marble feet of the statue are still visible.

Finally, at the summit of the half-moon was the uppermost cavea, assigned to the common herd and the women.  So, after all, we are somewhat ahead of the Romans in gallantry.  Railings separated this tier from the one we sit in, so as to prevent “the low rabble” from invading the seats occupied by us respectable men of substance.  Upon the wall of the people’s gallery is still seen the ring that held the pole of the velarium.  This velarium was an awning that was stretched above the heads of the spectators to protect them from the sun.  In earlier times the Romans had scouted at this innovation, which they called a piece of Campanian effeminacy.  But little by little, increasing luxury reduced the Puritans of Rome to silence, and they willingly accepted a velarium of silk—­an homage of Caesar.  Nero, who carried everything to excess, went further:  he caused a velarium of purple to be embroidered with gold.  Caligula frequently amused himself by suddenly withdrawing this movable shelter and leaving the naked heads of the spectators exposed to the beating rays of the sun.  But it seems that at Pompeii the wind frequently prevented the hoisting of the canvas, and so the poet Martial tells us that he will keep on his hat.