The introduction of the Turnstile Idea to keep Widener Library intact has finally taken place. The machinery has been installed and Cerberus is at the gate. For Harvard's light-fingered and absent-minded the inscription on the high facade reads: "Lose all hope who enter here." The open season for books is no more. Even should the conscientious objector escape through a back window and, disguised as a bricklayer, lose himself in the traffic of Massachusetts Avenue, the fear of the law would haunt his sleep, the imaginary hand, would forever be reaching for his shoulder.
Introduced as the last resort of distracted librarians and disappointed the sis-scribblers, the Turnstile, though the only solution for a serious problem, has its more human aspects. Two hundred years hence, its humble metal may be the goal of souvenir-seekers, the present-day transatlantic aeroplane enthusiasts, who will fight for a chip of the swinging arms rubbed thin by the contact with many shrunken, scholarly paunches.
Then again, with the exercise of a little ingenuity, the Turnstile Idea might be incorporated still further into traditional Harvard. With a gradual increase in the numbers of its students each year, the University might install special Registration Turnstiles in Memorial Hall, fitted to receive payment for term bills, Harvard Union memberships, and organized charity. Ten cents could be charged for the upkeep of this convenience and a slot modeled on the Subway plan could be arranged for its reception. Indeed if the Harvard of later years becomes definitely turnstile-minded, the obsequious machine might be put to good use in checking up on class-room attendance and keep the monitors permanently out of trouble.