Born in 1865 in southern Germany, Julius Schmidt emigrated to New York in 1882 with few expectations of success. He was Jewish, he walked with crutches, and he arrived with so little money that he had to sell his spare clothes for cash. After living for a time on the streets, Schmidt found a low-paying job cleaning animal intestines at a sausage-casing factory. But the teenager from Schorndorf would end his life a millionaire, thanks to his own hard work, the universal appetite for sex — and a little help from the sausage factory.
Until the 1850s, most condoms in America were imported from Europe, where the abundance of commercial slaughterhouses meant an equal abundance of animal skins. American condom entrepreneurs bought raw materials from Europe, too. By the late 1860s, they were importing about $15,000 worth of processed animal membranes to be made into condoms, a figure that would more than double by the time Julius Schmidt — he soon dropped the final “t” in his name to appear “less Jewish” — launched his business in 1883.
In making the move from slaughterhouse worker to condom maker, Schmid was hardly alone. His professional brethren had been rigging sausage casings into condoms since the Renaissance, according to Andrea Tone’s essential 2001 history of contraceptives in America, “Devices and Desires.” The early 18th century brought “love’s preservatives” made from fish membranes and various mammalian intestines. Tone writes of a 1783 handbill from London advertising a wholesale business run by someone named Mrs. Philips, with 35 years of experience supplying her wares to “ambassadors, foreigners, gentlemen and captains of ships going abroad.” Giacomo Casanova bought condoms in a Marseilles brothel from a woman who sold them in bulk.
Schmid’s initial technique was no great advancement over the centuries-old tradition. He started with intestines, fully cleaned and stretched. Creating the top-of-the-line models — called “goldbeaters’ skins” because their by-hand production methods resembled those used by goldsmiths — required massaging a particular section of the large intestine into an elastic material that could also be used as perfume stoppers or adhesive bandages. The cheapest versions were simply sewn or pasted together from unprocessed intestines.
Schmid sold these so-called “skins” out of his home on West 46th Street in Manhattan’s sprawling Tenderloin district, an area then known for saloons, casinos and brothels. Thanks to the public-morality crusading of postal inspector Anthony Comstock, contraceptives had been illegal in America since 1873. As Schmid’s business grew, he unsurprisingly drew the attention of Comstock’s vice squad, which raided his home in 1890 and arrested him after finding almost 700 condoms and “one form for manufacturing same.” He was released on $500 bail, then found guilty of selling contraceptives and fined $50. The arrest doesn’t seem to have slowed down his business. In the 1900 Census, he cheekily referred to himself as a “cap manufacturer,” and he advertised his wares discreetly as “French goods and medicines.”
Though condoms made from intestines remained popular, rubber versions had become possible with Charles Goodyear’s development of vulcanization in the 1840s. By the time Schmid went into business, rubber caps, full-length condoms, diaphragms and IUDs had entered the market. Eventually Schmid began producing rubber condoms, too, even buying the contents of a German rubber factory and shipping the whole thing to New Jersey. His technique, also imported from Germany, included dipping glass models into liquefied rubber and then vulcanizing them in high heat.
Schmidt didn’t invent either “skins” or rubbers, but with help from a liberalizing sexual culture and spotty enforcement of the Comstock laws, he took what had been a furtive, fly-by-night industry and turned it into a global and very public business. His empire eventually would include brands like Fourex, Paradise, Dash, Lynx, Velveto and Ramses. When women went crazy for Rudolph Valentino’s role as the Sheik in the 1920s, Schmid launched the Sheik brand, packaged in tins emblazoned with Valentino’s dashing silhouette.
Quality is a matter of life and death in condoms, and Schmid took pride in testing and standardizing his manufacturing methods to prevent failure. His products were more expensive than the cheapest, but they were cheaper than European versions. Consumers trusted him.
The outbreak of World War I expanded the demand for condoms, but they remained technically illegal until 1918. Progressive purity advocates instructed GIs to exercise “moral prophylaxis” while overseas, advice that was about as effective as the Lysol douches that women used to prevent pregnancy in the 1920s. Schmid and his rival, Trojan producer Merle Youngs, teamed up in a failed attempt to ask the military for legitimacy. They were rebuffed, and the United States was the only Allied country to send its soldiers into battle without arming them with condoms. As a result, almost 10 percent of American soldiers contracted a venereal disease over the course of the war. Schmid made a bundle off the war nonetheless. Germany had been Europe’s top exporter of condoms, and when the German economy became isolated, Schmid was ready to step in.
As the war drew to a close, a New York court ruling finally brought condoms into the sunlight. Judge Frederick Crane’s ruling meant that condoms could be legally sold and advertised — though only to prevent disease, not pregnancy. Schmid took advantage, and in the 1930s he launched the first national ad campaign for prophylactics. The ads for Fourex, Ramses and Sheik ran in more than a dozen men’s magazines, and promoted the respectability of the local druggist charged with selling Schmid’s wares. His rival, Youngs, eschewed the strategy.
By the end of the decade, Schmid was the country’s “king of condoms,” according to Fortune magazine. His business brought in almost $1 million a year. When the United States entered World War II, Ramses rubbers became the first endorsed by the Army. A few years after the war, Schmid was producing more than 130 million condoms a year.
Schmid handed over his company to his two sons in the 1950s, and they sold it to a London manufacturer in the 1960s. Schmid’s most prominent brands, Sheik and Ramses, remained on drugstore shelves until the late 1990s. As sales slipped, however, Schmid’s old reliables were eliminated in favor of the Durex brand. Today the U.S. market for condoms is dominated by Schmid’s rival, Merle Youngs’ Trojans. Sausage, for what it’s worth, is still a bigger business.
Ruth Graham is a writer living in New Hampshire.
Until the 1850s, most condoms in America were imported from Europe, where the abundance of commercial slaughterhouses meant an equal abundance of animal skins. American condom entrepreneurs bought raw materials from Europe, too. By the late 1860s, they were importing about $15,000 worth of processed animal membranes to be made into condoms, a figure that would more than double by the time Julius Schmidt — he soon dropped the final “t” in his name to appear “less Jewish” — launched his business in 1883.
In making the move from slaughterhouse worker to condom maker, Schmid was hardly alone. His professional brethren had been rigging sausage casings into condoms since the Renaissance, according to Andrea Tone’s essential 2001 history of contraceptives in America, “Devices and Desires.” The early 18th century brought “love’s preservatives” made from fish membranes and various mammalian intestines. Tone writes of a 1783 handbill from London advertising a wholesale business run by someone named Mrs. Philips, with 35 years of experience supplying her wares to “ambassadors, foreigners, gentlemen and captains of ships going abroad.” Giacomo Casanova bought condoms in a Marseilles brothel from a woman who sold them in bulk.
Schmid’s initial technique was no great advancement over the centuries-old tradition. He started with intestines, fully cleaned and stretched. Creating the top-of-the-line models — called “goldbeaters’ skins” because their by-hand production methods resembled those used by goldsmiths — required massaging a particular section of the large intestine into an elastic material that could also be used as perfume stoppers or adhesive bandages. The cheapest versions were simply sewn or pasted together from unprocessed intestines.
Schmid sold these so-called “skins” out of his home on West 46th Street in Manhattan’s sprawling Tenderloin district, an area then known for saloons, casinos and brothels. Thanks to the public-morality crusading of postal inspector Anthony Comstock, contraceptives had been illegal in America since 1873. As Schmid’s business grew, he unsurprisingly drew the attention of Comstock’s vice squad, which raided his home in 1890 and arrested him after finding almost 700 condoms and “one form for manufacturing same.” He was released on $500 bail, then found guilty of selling contraceptives and fined $50. The arrest doesn’t seem to have slowed down his business. In the 1900 Census, he cheekily referred to himself as a “cap manufacturer,” and he advertised his wares discreetly as “French goods and medicines.”
Though condoms made from intestines remained popular, rubber versions had become possible with Charles Goodyear’s development of vulcanization in the 1840s. By the time Schmid went into business, rubber caps, full-length condoms, diaphragms and IUDs had entered the market. Eventually Schmid began producing rubber condoms, too, even buying the contents of a German rubber factory and shipping the whole thing to New Jersey. His technique, also imported from Germany, included dipping glass models into liquefied rubber and then vulcanizing them in high heat.
Schmidt didn’t invent either “skins” or rubbers, but with help from a liberalizing sexual culture and spotty enforcement of the Comstock laws, he took what had been a furtive, fly-by-night industry and turned it into a global and very public business. His empire eventually would include brands like Fourex, Paradise, Dash, Lynx, Velveto and Ramses. When women went crazy for Rudolph Valentino’s role as the Sheik in the 1920s, Schmid launched the Sheik brand, packaged in tins emblazoned with Valentino’s dashing silhouette.
Quality is a matter of life and death in condoms, and Schmid took pride in testing and standardizing his manufacturing methods to prevent failure. His products were more expensive than the cheapest, but they were cheaper than European versions. Consumers trusted him.
The outbreak of World War I expanded the demand for condoms, but they remained technically illegal until 1918. Progressive purity advocates instructed GIs to exercise “moral prophylaxis” while overseas, advice that was about as effective as the Lysol douches that women used to prevent pregnancy in the 1920s. Schmid and his rival, Trojan producer Merle Youngs, teamed up in a failed attempt to ask the military for legitimacy. They were rebuffed, and the United States was the only Allied country to send its soldiers into battle without arming them with condoms. As a result, almost 10 percent of American soldiers contracted a venereal disease over the course of the war. Schmid made a bundle off the war nonetheless. Germany had been Europe’s top exporter of condoms, and when the German economy became isolated, Schmid was ready to step in.
As the war drew to a close, a New York court ruling finally brought condoms into the sunlight. Judge Frederick Crane’s ruling meant that condoms could be legally sold and advertised — though only to prevent disease, not pregnancy. Schmid took advantage, and in the 1930s he launched the first national ad campaign for prophylactics. The ads for Fourex, Ramses and Sheik ran in more than a dozen men’s magazines, and promoted the respectability of the local druggist charged with selling Schmid’s wares. His rival, Youngs, eschewed the strategy.
By the end of the decade, Schmid was the country’s “king of condoms,” according to Fortune magazine. His business brought in almost $1 million a year. When the United States entered World War II, Ramses rubbers became the first endorsed by the Army. A few years after the war, Schmid was producing more than 130 million condoms a year.
Schmid handed over his company to his two sons in the 1950s, and they sold it to a London manufacturer in the 1960s. Schmid’s most prominent brands, Sheik and Ramses, remained on drugstore shelves until the late 1990s. As sales slipped, however, Schmid’s old reliables were eliminated in favor of the Durex brand. Today the U.S. market for condoms is dominated by Schmid’s rival, Merle Youngs’ Trojans. Sausage, for what it’s worth, is still a bigger business.
Ruth Graham is a writer living in New Hampshire.
PHOTO: Library of Congress
An 1872 print, "Casanova and the Condom."
