Even the gaps have history.

Meandering among the crumbling stone and brick edifices of Rochester’s old industrial heart, it can be easy to forget that what we see is but a tiny sampling of the rambling mills and smoke-puffing factories that once crammed these riverside lots with bustling productivity. For every stone façade still standing, there are multiple modern streets and paved parking lots that are etched with the ghosts of past activity. Where one walks may have been once the board-walk over a mill-race, which in turn was once swiftly flowing open water. Where one parks their car may have been the site of a foundational industry in Rochester’s infancy.

What reason would we have to know, or even care? Unless some curiosity or personal connection draws us to examine more closely the past of some empty lot, why bother? The lot is more relevant to our lives today than some mill, is it not? But the mill was the quickening spark that set the heart of this city beating. Its relevancy–in a way–is paramount, and as long-lived as the city itself.

The City Mills, above, was originally constructed in 1831 by miller Erasmus D. Smith. It faced Child’s Basin, a brief extension of the Erie Canal used for the loading and offloading of goods. It was built upon the former site of the mill once erected by Ebenezer Allan, the checkered character who helped found our fair city. But by this time, Allan’s mill was nearly two decades gone, washed into oblivion in 1808 by freshets. This new mill was of sturdy stone, and–clearly–built to persevere.

From Erasmus Smith, the City Mills would transfer ownership to General E. S. Beach, who had previously constructed the 6-storey, 16-stone run Aqueduct Mill. From Beach, the mill went to Louis Chapin until 1866, when George W. Galliger [in this article spelled “George N. Gallagher”, but from other sources his name was George Washington Galliger] purchased the building.

A map bearing the City Mills of G. W. Galliger can be seen above; it is facing Child’s Basin to the north with its rear on Aqueduct Street to the south.

With G. W. Galliger’s purchase of the mill, the building was entirely refitted for the purposes of wood turning, sawing, and framing. Numerous small woodworking industries would operate out of the premises for several decades thereafter.

The view above is down Aqueduct Street from East Main Street; the third building in should be the City Mills’ Aqueduct street face, but given the angle the City Mills is obscured behind the buildings between Race and Basin Streets due to its setback from Aqueduct; we may in fact be seeing the former Arcade Mills to the south of it.

Also visible poking in at the left side of the frame is one of the iron-fronted buildings on East Main Street.

At this point, the City Mills building belonged to preeminent local builder Nehemiah Osburn, owner of the Osburn House, whose own home stood prominently at the corner of East Avenue, East Main Street, and Elm Street.

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Arcade Mills Fire

In 1899, fire erupted in the Arcade Mills of Mr. Charles Chase. The fire was intense–so intense that a bolt which anchored the mill’s walls to its neighboring building to the south (the Disbrow Box Manufactory) became superheated by the blaze, causing a smolder long after the initial fire was extinguished which caught the Disbrow box factory on fire the following day.

The Democrat & Chronicle building between Graves Street and the river made for an excellent vantage point from which to photograph the fire.

As noted above, the occupants of the Galliger Building to the north of the conflagration were spared from its destructive effects. One of these occupants is of especial interest to me, as he was my great great grandfather, Charles Robert Zeiner. [That would be the one listed above as J. Zeiner, for some reason.]

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Charles R. Zeiner & Charles E. Schulze

Born in Germany in 1853, Charles Robert Zeiner emigrated to the United States at the age of 15 in 1862.

Charles R. Zeiner worked as a cabinet maker at the furniture factory of Copeland, Hall & Co. near the Jay Street canal bridge. He worked with Charles Edward Schulze, another German immigrant. In 1873 Zeiner married Shulze’s sister, Emilie Schulze, making her my great-great-grandmother.

In 1874, Charles R. Zeiner went into business with Charles E. Schulze, making cigar boxes.

At this time Charles R. was living at an apartment, 204 North Street, in a building owned by a grocer named Leonard Ferner:

At the time of the 1875 atlas, Charles E. Schulze was boarding at No. 278 North Street with his parents, Frederick T. and Henrietta Schulze. Also an eventual inhabitant of No. 278 North Street was Charles’ brother Guenther H. Schulze, who would come to work at the cigar box factory as well.

By 2007, the address had changed from 278 to 646 and, finally, 846. It was razed 2008 after major fires in 2005 and 2007.

As of the 1876 directory, both Charleses would be listed as having an occupation in “cigar boxes” at 3 Aqueduct Street. This, of course, was the City Mills building to which we have already been introduced.

At this time, Charles R. Zeiner lived at 24 Mark Street:

The first time Schulze & Zeiner appeared in the business directory under “Cigar boxes & Cigar-Making Supplies” was in the 1884 directory, above.

3 Aqueduct street as of 1892: note the “Cigar Box Fac” in the building marked 3. This would have been the cigar box manufactory of Charles R. Zeiner and Charles E. Shulze.

The above classified ad implores the finder to return a lost parcel of cigar ribbons, for the local cigar manufacturer Charles F. Gottschalk at No. 189 Hudson.

Tragically, Charles E. Schulze would die on the 6th of February, 1887 at the age of 30. His employees write their sympathies in the above clipping, including George H. Young, Schulze’s brother-in-law. He left his wife, Catherine, and one son, Oscar. His widow would go on to live to 90 years old, dying in 1948.

By this point, Charles R. Zeiner lived at No. 40 Mark Street:

Charles’ neighbor to the east No. 42 Mark was W. H. Dutcher, a painter; in 1889, Dutcher moved to Copeland Street. Charles R. purchased Dutcher’s former home and moved his family into it, letting No. 40 out to various boarders and family members at various times; to a carpenter named Daniel DeLelys, his son-in-law optician Gustave W. Hoppe, and his sons Charles F. D. Zeiner and William A. Zeiner.

Far from the only box factory in town, or even on Aqueduct Street, the Charles R. Zeiner crew had a healthy baseball rivalry with fellow boxcrafters, Sauer & Deer.

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C. R. Zeiner & Sons

Charles R. Zeiner had three sons who took part in the cigar box company alongside him; my great-grandfather William Anthony, Charles Friedrich David, and David Anthony. in 1907 they would be taken into partnership with Charles R. to become styled as Charles R. Zeiner & Sons.

In 1909, the addresses changed on Aqueduct Street: No. 3 Aqueduct became No. 26 Aqueduct.

This view seems to be from immediately west of No. 26 Aqueduct, given the building’s setback from Aqueduct Street. One can see the wall of the Central Trust Building at No. 25 East Main Street to the far left.

Charles R. Zeiner passed away in 1915.

After this, Charles’ sons are listed in directories as boxmakers, without an occupational address. The relationship between the Zeiner family and the City Mills building seems to have come to a close with my great great grandfather’s death.

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Into the 20th Century

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Ebenezer Allan Plaque

While the walls stood, a plaque commemorating the Ebenezer Allan mills was affixed to the corner of the City Mills building at Aqueduct and Race streets. After the walls were finally completely razed, the plaque was meant to return to the corner of whatever building replaced it. Unfortunately, none ever would.

It seems the plaque, like so many things, also disappeared, taken by some vandal in 1959.

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A Lot Happens

As of the 1926 plat, little is left of the mill but its crumbling stone walls. The roof has been removed “many years” as of the below 1928 article; soon, it would be torn down entirely to serve as automobile parking.

By 1935 the mill is entirely razed, leveled, and paved over, becoming the ancestral parking lot of the parking lot we know and love today:

Look at this awe-inspiring beauty.

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