There’d Be No Toy Trains Under Your Tree If It Weren’t for Joshua Lionel Cowen

Written by William Bryk on . Posted in Miscellaneous, Posts.

The Warner
Bros. film Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone and J.K. Rowling’s
Harry Potter books show the apprentice sorcerers traveling between the human
world and their school of witchcraft and wizardry via the Hogwarts Express,
a passenger train that starts from London at Platform 9 3/4, King’s Cross
Station. The train shown in the film, with its steam locomotive and
coaches painted in rich maroon with elaborately worked gold lettering, seems
an exuberance of Edwardian grandeur, at least to one used to Amtrak.

The other
day, a friend noted an advertisement for an HO-scale model train set of the
Hogwarts Express, manufactured by Bachmann Industries of Philadelphia, PA. With
Thomas the Tank Engine and his friends already modeled in every commercial scale,
from the massive G through the postage stamp-sized N, the Hogwarts Express may
prove the second boost from British children’s literature to the American
model train industry in our generation.

Once, American
railroads dominated our culture because they were nearly the only means of fast
land transportation. Now there are other means to get there from here. They
seem less important, and toy trains share the marginalization of their prototypes.
Yet millions of us played with toy trains, particularly those manufactured by
Lionel. For perhaps a decade after World War II, the technical, managerial and
promotional genius of Joshua Lionel Cowen, founder of the Lionel Corp., made
his toy trains part of American middle-class boyhood. In 1952 alone, Lionel
produced 622,209 engines and 2,460,764 freight and passenger cars. Ron Hollander’s
delightful, lavishly illustrated biography of Cowen and his company, All
(recently reissued by Workman Publishing, $24.95), states that Lionel’s
production in one year eclipsed "the nation’s railroads, which had
a mere 43,000 locomotives and 1.8 million cars in service." The
New York Times wrote in 1965 that Cowen made the Lionel name "the
third wing of Christmas, along with the evergreen tree and Santa Claus."
Even now, for many of us, a Christmas tree, however laden with colored lights,
however lavishly tinseled, seems incomplete without an 027 model train running
beneath it on a circle of steel track.

Joshua Lionel
Cowen was born on Henry St. in Manhattan’s Lower East Side on Aug. 25,
1877. He preferred playing ball, bicycling, hiking and tinkering with mechanical
toys to formal education, and soon became fascinated with electricity, its transmission
and its storage in batteries. In the labs at Peter Cooper Institute, he built
what may have been (or what he claimed was–Cowen had no false modesty)
the first electric doorbell. In 1899, he patented a device for igniting photographers’
flash powder by using dry cell batteries to heat a wire fuse. Cowen than parlayed
this into a defense contract to equip 24,000 Navy mines with detonators. His
ignorance of armament manufacture did not stop him. He used mercuric fulminate,
a sensitive and powerful explosive (his supplier’s deliveryman told him,
"The company said you should always keep a good deal around. It’s
better to be dead than maimed"), and delivered the fuses to the Brooklyn
Navy Yard on time by horse-drawn wagon at a gallop.

In 1900,
with $12,000 in profits, he began manufacturing "electrical novelties"
at 24 Murray St. in Lower Manhattan as the Lionel Manufacturing Co. He was 23
years old. Later, when asked why he had given the company his middle name, he
barked, "I had to call it something." Business was slow. He invented
a battery-powered electric fan. ("It was the most beautiful thing you ever
saw. It ran like a dream and it had only one thing wrong with it. You could
stand a foot away from the thing and not feel any breeze.") He liked the
little electric motor he had designed for the fan and felt sure he could find
another use for it. While walking on Cortlandt St., a few blocks south of his
offices, he stopped before Robert Ingersoll’s toy store. Cowen was intrigued
by store display windows, though he found most were boring, and Ingersoll’s
was no exception. It was full of cast-iron fire engines, "balancing clowns
and elephants on wheels; wind up boats," and a tin locomotive on a pull-string,
all sitting lifeless. Cowen thought the constant motion of an electric toy might
draw a crowd to the window. He looked at the locomotive again. Then he entered
the store and sold Ingersoll on the idea that had just come to him on the sidewalk.

He soon
returned with the first Lionel train, the Electric Express. It looked like an
open wooden cigar box on wheels. The track was made of metal strips set in wooden
ties. His fan motor, attached to the bottom of the car, was geared to its insulated
metal wheels. Dry cell batteries were wired to the track, which transmitted
the electricity to and from the motor. As Cowen later said, "I sold my
first railroad car not as a toy, but as…the first animated advertisement in
New York, outside of sandwich men and live demonstrators. I sold it for four
dollars. Well, sir, the next day he was back for another. The first customer
who saw it bought the advertisement instead of the goods." Ingersoll ordered
half a dozen more.

Other stores
ordered them too. Cowen had found his niche.

In 1902,
he produced his first electric trolley car, sold as a set with 30 feet of steel
track. It cost $7. This was not cheap: an industrial worker’s wages for
a six-day week then averaged $9.42. A year later, he produced his first toy
railroad engine and a derrick car with a crank-operated hook for picking up
freight loads and swinging them into a gondola car. This was his first operating
accessory. In 1906, he began using three-rail track, which radically simplified
electrical transmission. Now an operator could build an elaborate track layout
with turnouts and reversing loops without complicated wiring. He also produced
his first transformer, which reduced house current to a voltage suitable for
toy trains, obviating clumsy batteries to power his trains. A year after that,
his catalog listed trolleys, steam and electric locomotives, passenger cars
and freight cars, all brightly painted and lettered for the New York Central,
Pennsylvania, Lake Shore and other railroads.

Cowen did
not lack competition. Carlisle & Finch Co., of Cincinnati, OH, first made
electric trains in 1896. Ives Co., of Bridgeport, CT, had manufactured wind-up
trains as early as 1874. German toy manufacturers such as Bing and Marklin produced
magnificent electric and steam-powered toy trains. But Cowen beat them because
he produced a reliable product, with an expanding line of accessories, while
being an audacious promoter, selling his toys as educational because he knew
parents needed a rationalization for their purchase: "Knowledge of electricity
is valuable, not only as a profession, but as an education, whether one is an
electrical engineer or a bell-hanger." The kids couldn’t care less.

By 1912,
Cowen had 150 employees. World War I stopped the import of German toy trains
and, without serious domestic competition, Lionel became the dominant market
player, with its large, lavishly illustrated color catalogs bringing the message
to millions. Now Cowen made realistic and increasingly sophisticated toy locomotives,
detailed with steam pipes, bells and whistles. By the late 1930s, Cowen’s
models of the New York Central’s Hudson, the Milwaukee Road’s Hiawatha
and the Jersey Central’s Blue Comet started, stopped, slowed and accelerated
in response to push-button remote controls. They pulled an endless cascade of
boxcars, hopper cars, tank cars and passenger cars. In 1929, Cowen unveiled
the Transcontinental Limited, which stretched nine feet from its massive headlight
to its ornate observation platform, complete with brass rail. It cost $110–more
than a used Model T.

As John
R. Stilgoe noted in Metropolitan Corridor, his analysis of railroads
in American culture, the catalogs emphasized the trains and their environment:
the bridges, stations, signal towers, tunnels and turntables, all placed among
twisting lines of track. Crossing signals with flashing lights, ringing bells
and descending gates protected the miniature citizens of Lionel City and Lionelville
from onrushing expresses.

was interrupted only by World War II. By 1945, most Americans hungered for distractions.
Cowen’s vision of America, as reflected in his trains and accessories,
struck the exact chord of nostalgia and progress, and the orders poured in.

showroom on E. 26th St. held a huge layout with a four-track mainline. Cars
coupled and uncoupled, drawbridges rose and fell and coal bunkers dumped coal
into waiting hopper cars. Tiny men pushed tiny milk cans out of white refrigerator
cars. Cattle herded themselves into and out of stock cars. As trains passed
through grade crossings, a tiny crossing guard popped out of his shack to wave
his lantern. Whistles, chuffing sounds and even smoke came out of the locomotives
(the last by dropping a white pill down the stack onto a heating device).

Cowen, who
had handed over Lionel’s presidency to his son, Lawrence, loved to spend
hours among the crowds, occasionally providing expert advice to customers. Hollander
recounts how Lawrence, who lived at 2 Sutton Pl., was awakened by his doorbell
at 6 a.m. one Christmas Day. He found two small neighbors in pajamas, who
asked, "Can you fix our trains?" Understandably, their parents were
still asleep. Lawrence, in bathrobe and slippers, followed them up to their
apartment. The president of Lionel soon had the trains running. Then he wished
the boys a Merry Christmas and padded downstairs to bed.

The good
times didn’t last. They never do. From 1953, Lionel’s best year, to
1959, sales dropped by more than half. It was television: Hollander noted that
families got together to watch I Love Lucy, not to wire Lionel’s
new ice depot and watch a tiny man push blocks of ice down the open hatch of
a toy refrigerator car. It was aging: as kids grew older, they became more interested
in Elvis, James Dean, girls and cars. And it was the decline of American railroads.
Cowen’s marketing genius had perfectly fit the nation’s mood for perhaps
eight years. Then, suddenly, it didn’t.

In 1958,
the company lost money for the first time since the Depression. In September
1959, Lawrence returned from a sales trip to the Far East to learn that his
father and his sister had sold their shares of stock to a group of businessmen
led by Cowen’s great-nephew, Roy Cohn.

Cohn, who
had been chief counsel to Sen. Joseph McCarthy, was practicing law and the art
of corporate maneuvering, which he found enjoyable and profitable. Cohn’s
political skills did not make him a good administrator. He lost even more money.
Cohn paid $15 for each of his Lionel shares in 1959. Four years later, he sold
them for $5.25.

Lionel survives,
having passed through numerous hands before falling into a group of investors
including Neil Young, the singer and songwriter. It makes toy trains far more
sophisticated than anything Cowen might have imagined.

In 1999,
A&E produced an hour-long show ranking the top 10 toys of the 20th century.
Lionel was number four, preceded only by the yoyo, crayons and Barbie. If Cowen
had been alive (he died on Sept. 8, 1965, and was buried within hearing of a
secondary freight line of the LIRR), he would have screamed in protest. This
was unfair. The trains should have come first.