#since 1844

[shootwithheart]

Had a great time visiting Milwaukee for my Birthday!

I didn't take as many photos as I thought I would, but it's just enough to get a mini zine out of it.

Read the full story on Patreon:

[sariithecat]

I came here sure I could find any guys obsessing over any piece of fiction....why Is no one talking about The count of Montecristo? Like, there's a new movie too! Don't let me obsess alone over a few thousands year old book

[therainbowgorilla]

The nuns are at it again! Guards, get the whips

group meowing starts in 30min

[pmamtraveller]

THE QUEST FOR REALITY; ADOLPH VON MENZEL

Adolph von Menzel (1815-1905) was a German painter and printmaker who portrayed life in 19th-century Prussia, historical events, and everyday scenes. He was largely self-taught, and his skills developed practically through lithography and drawing experience.

The Iron Rolling Mill, 1875

This painting captures the intense labour of steelworkers in a Prussian industrial mill. There is a detailed expression, both of the machinery and the workers, illustrating the social condition of working-class people during the Industrial Revolution and Menzel's turn from historical themes to contemporary issues.

The Dinner at the Ball, 1878

It is a portrayal of an elegant high-society scene, coupled with detailed portrayals of fashionable guests and luxurious surroundings, all of which bring out the Biedermeier style. It captures the 19th-century social life, proving Menzel's skill to render social dynamics and intimate moments.

Frederick the Great Playing the Flute at Sanssouci, 1852

It portrays the tranquil scene of Frederick II music-making in his palace. The painting showcases Frederick's dual character as a ruler and as a musician, evincing cultural sophistication and the opulence of his court. The composition is the epitome of Menzel's great admiration for Frederick and his commitment to a history of Prussia done with emotional depth and realism.

Studio Wall, 1872

Menzel painted a nighttime view of his studio wall, with illuminated plaster casts, including death masks and classical figures. This work highlights Menzel's thoughts at the time; he had been ruminating over life and death and artistic posterity. It was a touching memorial to his friend Friedrich Eggers as well as a strong demonstration of his mastery of dramatic lighting.

The Visit From Death, 1844

Death is depicted as a humble professional who is neither wrathful nor unkind. Just simply doing its job and has no ill will for those it visits upon. It even has a sense of respect, taking its clogs off before entering the home. Menzel followed up in 1845 with a hilarious painting that suggests that the arrival of Death isn’t so final after all!

The Balcony Room (1845)

Inspired by his journeys to Paris, Menzel depicts a sparsely furnished apartment full of sunlight. This painting foreshadows impressionist techniques since it's totally oriented with light and atmosphere, marking an important turn in Menzel's career away from historical themes and toward contemporary genre scenes.

[eleancrvances]

not a reviewer saying they "added a lesbian" to the count of monte cristo... my girl eugénie has been there since 1844

[whencyclopedia]

Pirate Havens in the Golden Age of Piracy

The buccaneers who roamed the Spanish Main and the pirates who plundered the Caribbean and the Indian Ocean during the Golden Age of Piracy (1690-1730) needed a place of refuge where they could share out and enjoy their loot. Pirate havens like Port Royal on Jamaica, Tortuga on Hispaniola, and New Providence in the Bahamas provided safe harbours, the possibility to sell looted cargo to crooked traders, and were within easy reach of the main shipping routes. As the colonial authorities finally got a grip on piracy from 1720 onwards, so the pirate havens declined, many of them becoming a pirate’s very last port of call: the place of their execution.

The Lure of the Pirate Dens

Pirates needed safe harbours where they could hide from the authorities and share out their loot. Ideally, a base was close to the routes taken by merchant shipping, the pirates’ primary target, and, even better, close to a strait where these ships were obliged to navigate through. It also needed to be a place of refuge during the winter or storm season. Pirates needed to be able to repair their ships, and so a base with shallows was ideal as a vessel could be more easily careened. Such locations had the added advantage that large naval vessels could not easily access them.

The havens were a safe place for pirates to rest their weary sea legs and let their hair down. Here they quickly spent their ill-gotten loot on wine, women, and gambling. Pirates sold captured cargoes to unscrupulous dealers who had set up business in the various pirate havens in the Caribbean and the Indian Ocean. The dealers were on to a good thing since they acquired goods at a much cheaper rate than from legitimate merchant vessels in any other port, and the pirates were happy enough to get their cash, even if they were obliged to sell at a price much below the real value. The dealers then smuggled their dubious goods into legitimate ports where it was sold through the channels it would have reached if the pirates had not interrupted the trade process.

Pirates struck deals with corrupt colonial officials if they could, getting a better price for their plunder than they would have in a haven. Perhaps the most infamous of the rotten governors was Charles Eden, governor of North Carolina, who gave such notorious and unrepentant pirates as Edward Teach (aka Blackbeard, d. 1718) and Stede Bonnet (d. 1718) pardons, even allowing the former to establish a pirate base at Ocracoke Island. Another infamous governor who fenced loot for pirates was Colonel Benjamin Fletcher in New York before his dismissal in 1698.

Continue reading...

[drawingdroid]

Yay I finished this Anidala piece, I think I liked it better unfinished but hey, I least I practiced. The reference is the sculpture Paolo e Virgina, by the Italian sculptor Alessandro Puttinati. It was such a coincidence I chose this piece, since the characters are childhood friends who fall in love but then after the tragic death of Virginia, Paolo dies from pure sorrow. Sounds familiar?

Alessandro Puttinati, Paolo e Virginia, 1844

[literaryvein-reblogs]

10 Rules for Writers by Nietzsche

Between August 8 and August 24 of 1882, Friedrich Nietzsche (October 15, 1844–August 25, 1900) set down ten stylistic rules of writing in a series of letters to the Russian-born writer, intellectual, and psychoanalyst Lou Andreas-Salomé — the first female psychoanalyst.

Smitten with 21-year-old Andreas-Salomé, Nietzsche decided to make her not only his intellectual protégé, but also his wife, allegedly proposing marriage at only their second meeting earlier that year. Despite Andreas-Salomé’s rejection of his romantic advances and the subsequent break in the friendship, she retained a lifelong respect for his mind and work.

Collected under the heading “Toward the Teaching of Style”:

Of prime necessity is life: a style should live.

Style should be suited to the specific person with whom you wish to communicate. (The law of mutual relation.)

First, one must determine precisely “what-and-what do I wish to say and present,” before you may write. Writing must be mimicry.

Since the writer lacks many of the speaker’s means, he must in general have for his model a very expressive kind of presentation of necessity, the written copy will appear much paler.

The richness of life reveals itself through a richness of gestures. One must learn to feel everything — the length and retarding of sentences, interpunctuations, the choice of words, the pausing, the sequence of arguments — like gestures.

Be careful with periods! Only those people who also have long duration of breath while speaking are entitled to periods. With most people, the period is a matter of affectation.

Style ought to prove that one believes in an idea; not only that one thinks it but also feels it.

The more abstract a truth which one wishes to teach, the more one must first entice the senses.

Strategy on the part of the good writer of prose consists of choosing his means for stepping close to poetry but never stepping into it.

It is not good manners or clever to deprive one’s reader of the most obvious objections. It is very good manners and very clever to leave it to one’s reader alone to pronounce the ultimate quintessence of our wisdom.

[thefugitivesaint]

Edward Linley Sambourne (1844-1910), 'The Race of Death', ''Punch'', June 3, 1903

Source

I'm very much in the "anti-car culture" camp and find cars to be one of the worst aspects of living in any city (especially in Philly in the summer). It seems early cartoonists often depicted cars as machines of death around their general introduction into our shared public spaces. (I've amassed a rather large collection of these anti-car cartoons, this one from Punch being just one example.) Here's some car facts from a recent study from the Journal of Transport Geography: 1) 1 in 34 deaths are caused by cars and automobility with 1,670,000 deaths per year 2) Cars and automobility have killed 60–80 million people since their invention

[nb-n0v4]

I decided to do a redraw of the Doctors as vampires bc I'm unwell about the concept <3 individual crops and also their names and stuff under the cut. 15 is gonna get his own drawing eventually since we weren't up to him yet when I first drew this

9: Dorian. He/him. Born in 1844. 109 years old. Turned at 42. 7'

10: Ezra. He/they. Born in 1743. 210 years old. Turned at 36. 7'4"

11: Austen. He/she/they. Born in 1733. 220 years old. Turned at 29. 7'2"

12: Judas. She/they. Turned in 1641. 312 years old. Turned at 62. 7'

13" Charlotte (Charlie for short). He/she. Born in 1440. 513 years old. Turned at 39. 6"9'

[celticcrossanon]

Scalding HOT tea, part 1. Friend of mine is acquaintances with British journalists who finally told my friend some very interesting tea. British intelligence informed QE2 several weeks before Princess Eugene's wedding in 2018 that M was not pregnant with A. Not long after, major British newspaper editors were summoned to a meeting with QE2 in the 1844 Room at Buckingham Palace. The British press has been silent on the fake pregnancies since then.

From 4 days ago

Hi Nonny,

Thank you for the hot tea. :) That does sound like the press was stopped from releasing the story. I wonder why?

The outcome of the story being confirmed is that Harry would be guilty of attempting to interfere in the Line of Succession, and the penalty by law for that is for Harry and his children to lose their places in the Line of Succession. I would love for that to happen, as I think it would solve several problems very nicely.

[leroibobo]

ruins of the white mosque of ramla, palestine. construction was initiated by umayyad governor sulayman ibn abd al-malik in 715-717 ce, but was completed by his successor umar ii in 720.

an earthquake in january of 1034 destroyed the mosque, and reconstruction was completed 200 years later. it since had several destructions, restorations, and expansions, including one restoration by saladin. the last took place between 1844-1918; since then, it has been mostly destroyed, with only its minaret still intact.

the mosque is reputable in muslim tradition; its minaret is referred to as the tower of forty martyrs, after the belief that forty companions of the prophet muhammad are buried under it. within local muslim tradition, it's believed that the prophet salih was also buried here, and a maqām in his honor is located nearby. a religious celebration of salih used to take place here annually before the nakba.

below the mosque's courtyard also exist three large cisterns (last two pictures) which provided water for worshippers, including for a former pool for wudu.

[pmamtraveller]

SCENES FROM MODERN LIFE; THOMAS EAKINS

Thomas Eakins (1844–1916) was an influential American painter known for his realism and focus on the human form. His father was a calligrapher and writing teacher, and at first, that seems to have been Thomas Eakins’ direction, too. He studied at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts where he learnt drawing and anatomy.

The Champion Single Sculls (Max Schmitt in a Single Scull) (1871)

Created to commemorate the victory of Eakins's friend, Max Schmitt, in a rowing competition on Philadelphia's Schuylkill River. Eakins, a passionate oarsman himself, depicted Schmitt in a moment of calm rather than in the throes of competition. The painting captures great detail in the water, oars, and weather, Eakins even included himself in the artwork, rowing in the background.

Portrait of Dr. Samuel D. Gross (The Gross Clinic) (1875)

It is a portrait of the renowned Philadelphia surgeon in the surgical amphitheater of Jefferson Medical College (now part of Thomas Jefferson University). Eakins includes himself in the painting, seated at the far left, sketching the scene. The patient's mother, who looks away and shields her eyes, unable to watch the surgery, is also included. The procedure took place before the advent of aseptic technique, so instruments were clean but not sterile, gloves and gowns were not worn.

Arcadia (c 1883)

This painting was an unusual venture into mythology, created during a period when Eakins was experimenting with photography. Eakins had bought his first camera in 1880 and started to use it as a photographic sketchbook. Although it can be read as another step in his campaign for painting from life, the work features models posed in a pastoral setting, including his future wife, Susan Macdowell, and his nephew, Ben Crowell.

Swimming (The Swimming Hole) (1885)

Bathers have been a popular and recurrent theme in paintings since the dawn of the art. Here, Eakins features identifiable figures, which are Eakins himself and several of his students. However, its exhibition in 1885 sparked controversy due to its graphic portrayal of nudity and identifiable figures. This backlash contributed to Eakins's resignation from the Academy in 1886 after a series of complaints about his promotion of nude studies.

The Agnew Clinic (1889)

This fine painting shows the surgeon performing a partial mastectomy, and the whole scene is a testament of how surgery had advanced in just fourteen years. The clean white gowns worn by the doctors, the use of sterilized instruments, techniques promoted by Agnew. Eakins completed the painting quickly, in just three months, rather than the year he took for his earlier masterpiece, The Gross Clinic.

[baiabay]

No Role Modelz (ATSV Black Cat Variant! Reader Insert)

Chapter 1: Scaredy-Cat

Prologue

Chapter 1: Current Chapter

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

^^links 2 chapters!! this story is also on ao3, wattpad, and quotev under the same name ! <33

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A/N: Spot is here!!

 Hey all! Okay so first things first thank you so much for all the support of the last chapter! It honestly means alot given that ive never written before lol. Alsoooo sorry for the radio-silence after the last release, i just graduated highschool! So yay for me :) also means that ill have much more time to write since its summer break for me now. Lastly,sorry if this chapter seemed kinda slow, I wanted to try to incorporate what this universes’ Felicia Hardys “canon events”(or what would be of her canon events) would look like in this chapter to set up a bit of backstory, as someone who doesn’t read the comics nor play the games, pls forgive any inaccuracies in Felicias lore as I am only going based off of wikipedia (plus in this story reader is a minor so I wanted to exclude the nsfw trauma that Felicia goes through in og story) I also wanted to find out a way how to integrate reader into the main plot which is why i decided to feature Spot in this chapter :D thanks again for the support and don’t forget that this chapter along with any future ones will be posted to ao3/tumblr under the same title!

P.S. Much more Spider-Miles/Black Cat interactions next chapter!!

Word Count: 1844

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You remembered it like it was yesterday.

Seven months ago, Brooklyn, New York.

Your father - The Black Cat’s face on every screen in the country, but most importantly yours.

BREAKING NEWS: WORLD-RENOWNED CAT BURGLAR CAUGHT IN THE ACT : IDENTITY SHOCKS THE NATION

…huh?

LIVE ON THE SCENE: ‘BLACK CAT’ REVEALED TO BE MULTI MILLIONAIRE WALTER HARDY AFTER RUN-IN WITH SPIDER-MAN

…no, this-

THIS JUST IN: CAT BURGLAR WALTER HARDY PRESUMED DEAD AT HEIST SCENE - POSSESSIONS TO BE TURNED IN TO OFFICIALS

This can’t be happening.

It was all too much at once. 

He never kept it secret from you. You knew about your father’s job.

You knew all about what he did. The planning, the heists, the reselling, he had done it for years. And you knew all about it.  But he had been doing this for years. Long enough to allow your family to live very comfortably. Long enough that you believed he would never be caught.

But yet there you were, all that you knew burned to the ground in a matter of minutes.

You remembered it like it was yesterday. Frantically packing everything you could into any bag you could find; clothes, money, pictures, weapons, anything - before they could take it away from you. 

And when they did, it was brutal. 

Live-streamed news coverage of men raiding your home, rummaging through your stuff- your father’s stuff- as if he never existed. 

Soon enough there were auctions. Bids, worth millions, on your father’s items, broadcasted across the nation, with drinks and music and finger foods - they made a fucking sport out of it. 

You remembered it like it was yesterday, the cheers in the street after the big-bad-black-cat was pronounced dead. The endless praise Spider-man received, that of which he took with a smile on his face. You had wished you could kill him.

You remembered it like it was yesterday, the day Peter Parker died.

You laughed.

.    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .  

Seven months later, Brooklyn, New York.

Ugh.

Muscles aching, you stretched up in your bed, and groaned. Ruffling the bedhead out of your hair, you reluctantly trudged out of your mattress to open a window. Coincidentally, one of your many cats was perched perfectly on its sill, wide-eyed and tail flicking in your direction.

“...This whole heist stuff is really catching up to me, huh?”

The cat stared. You sighed. You really had to get yourself some friends.

Ever since your fathers passing, you’ve basically been on your own. Shortly after all his (and your) possessions were seized, you hopped around until you managed to find shelter in a shitty apartment on the west side of town. You, fueled purely by spite (with a tasteful teeny tiny dash of vengeance on the side), inherited the criminal persona of your father, along with his criminal tendencies, and took upon yourself the name of The Black Cat. 

All this time you’ve managed to keep your identity completely secret, not even your resellers knew who you were. That came with one major drawback though… you were extremely lonely.

Even with your frequent charity rounds around the community, noone really knew who you were. Even though Black Cat was nonviolent, the name was widely feared seemingly everywhere you went. Even with your days at school, the school you’ve been going to for months now, you made your way around the halls unnoticed. 

Speaking of school, you were late. 

Shit. 

Spending ample time dazing out your window, you’ve completely lost track of time. You disregarded your hair and rushed to pull on your uniform. Stumbling around your complex you hastily dumped too large of a portion of cat food into the automatic feeder, something you’re sure the cats will be grateful for. Shoving a few snacks into your bag, you simultaneously shuffled into your school shoes, proceeding to dash out the door. 

Sprinting down the stairs, nearly tripping once, twice, you whipped out your phone to check when the next bus route would arrive. 35 minutes.

Shitshitshit.

You paused, still in the stairwell, before turning to sprint in the opposite direction, towards the rooftop terrace. Creaking open the door, you checked to make sure noone else was up there before making your way towards the edge of the terrace. To anyone else but you, it would look like a young student was about to make an unfortunate decision and jump. And jump you did. 

You fell for a few seconds, relishing in the way your stomach dropped. You’d never get tired of that feeling. Seeing the ground get closer, you released your grappling hook and latched onto the nearest building. Pulling and releasing, you quickly fell into a swinging pattern, towards Brooklyn Visions. 

Hidden from the eyes of civilians, you swung yourself through the shadows. Everyone looked so small from up there, and for a brief second, you found power in your lonesome. In the corner of your eye you noticed what seemed to be a lanky white figure clumsily flying through the air. (You paid it no mind).

Dropping down into a dark alleyway much closer to campus, you continued your mad dash towards the main entrance. Winded, you finally made your way inside the building, a thin layer of sweat shined on your forehead. The hallways were empty, class must be in session. You took a few steps forward, making your way towards your classroom until being knocked over by a student, very evidently in a hurry. 

“Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t mean to-I’m just in a rush, I didn’t mean…”

The boy reached out his hand to help you up.

“Hey, it's no problem, I get it.”

You smiled, and took your hand in his. He hesitated for a moment, staring, brows furrowed at your now interlocked hands, before nodding and continuing his sprint down the hallways. 

You took in his disheveled appearance, his wonky tie, his half-tucked shirt, untied laces, dark eyes, curly hair, brown skin, sweaty palms…

Your thoughts were quickly interrupted with the shrill ringing of the school bell. Suddenly, the hallways flooded with students rushing towards their next classes, you decided to follow suit. 

On the other side of the hallway, Miles Morales lingered on how his spidey-sense flashed alarms in his head when his hand touched yours. Every nerve in his system telling him to run, fight, dodge, anything to get away from you-he couldn't put his finger on why. (He paid it no mind). Blaming it on nerves, Miles shoved his way through the packed hallways, dreading the meeting waiting for him in the guidance counselor's office. 

.    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    

School was a bust, as always. Nothing new, you made your way through the rest of the day unnoticed. As always. But you didn’t have time to think about that right now.

At the moment, you were in the middle of going through numerous number-codes on a padlock blocking the vault door to an extremely expensive gemstone. You’ve been salivating over this stone for weeks now, planning out how and when exactly you would strike to get this thing in your hands. You could see it now, the headlines, the chaos, after some rando millionaire’s little rock was taken from him…

“Woah, hey, you’re new!”

You flinched, hard. Whipping around towards the source of this unusually chipper voice. You were met with… a cow? … Man?

You stared, hard. 

“Okay, hey. The ogling isn’t necessary… I just-”

The cowman’s sentence was cut short with a quick lash of your whip, that of which he caught…? Your whip seemed to phase right through a large black hole on his torso, the opposite end appearing in a similar black hole right behind you, the whips end striking your back. You cried out, hit with the full force of your lash.

Sinister giggles emerged from the spotted figure, pointed towards your pained form. You trembled, in shock. 

“It’s rude to interrupt.” 

Spot stepped slowly towards you, his…well, spots, whirring aggressively, pointedly. You were frozen on the ground. Staring up at him, your lips trembled open.

“What,” You coughed. Once, twice. “-what are you?”

The black and white figure straightened, only to then fold over into a dramatic, hilariously unthreatening pose. 

“You, can call me… The Sp-”

“Some sort of cow?” You snickered. It was now his turn to flinch, hard. 

“I am NOT a-” The cow cleared his throat. “I am not a cow…whydoeseveryonesaythat…I, am the most dangerous villain you’ve ever seen, The Spo-”

“I mean, what’s with that getup?” The grin on your face grew. “Is that… is that supposed to be a costume? Orrrr…” 

The Spot sighed, defeated. “...it’s skin.”

“It’s skin?” 

“Yes, yes, now I-”

You stood up, energy back and eyes crinkled. 

“Wow, that’s…hm, interesting…skin, that’s skin? Sorry, sorry-listen man, I uh, I really gotta get back to this, so if you don’t mind?”

Stepping backwards in offence, the spotted figure shook in anger before swinging out his arm, releasing numerous dark voids around the room. Hitting practically every surface, but one most importantly, landing on the vault door, separating you, from your stone.

“Ah-wait-”

Swiftly, The Spot weaved his way through his holes, limbs popping up and out around the room in a way you couldn’t even begin to reach for your whip. 

No way was he about to take it from you.

But take it, he did.

In what felt like seconds, the whole room was engulfed in black. Stumbling backwards, you fell through one of the voids, flailing ungracefully, swimming through nothing. 

It was hard to breathe. 

A shrill crackling terrorized your ears, and before you, appeared a very disheveled Spot, now fully black with white spots, facial dot whirring and trained on you.

Gem in hand. 

Panic.

You were panicking. The sound of blood thrummed in your ears as you squirmed around in nothingness. Fuck the rock, you just had to get out of here. 

A cold hand grabs your wrist, dragging you upwards, towards the crackling form. 

For the second time today, you were frozen.

“I am not a cow,”

The form spoke lowly.

“I am not some villain of the week”,

Frozen still, you did nothing but stare straight into his glare.

“I. Am. The Spot”.

Suddenly, you were dropped. For the second time today, your stomach dropped with you. Next thing you know you’re falling through another void, leading not into darkness, but through the city skyline. Seeing the ground get closer, you released your grappling hook and latched onto the nearest building. 

As soon as your feet reached a solid surface, your legs buckled. Heaving, you failed to process what just took place, heart pounding in your ears. 

“...the fuck was that?”

.   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   

Miles received word of commotion taking place downtown, something to do with spots. He had hoped it wasn’t what he thought it was, and it was. It was, and was so much worse. 

Dark spots littered a large manor, maniacal cackling emerging from its center. In the corner of his eye a familiar masked figure hunched over, breathing rapidly, staring straight ahead at the mess of spots.

(He paid it some mind.)

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Ppl that asked me to tag them!(thxx 4 the support!)

@nightshxdex

@itszzmoon

@blackcat-kittyblogs

@vxxxb

<3

[play-now-my-lord]

Jesus has been attempting to respawn in his original starting position roughly once a decade since 1844 but that position is buried in about a foot of settled dust (aeolic deposition, human detritus, etc) so his ability to perform effective works on earth is extremely limited. Whatever mechanism causes him to respawn doesn't despawn the corpses so there's just a pile of about twenty tiny skeletons (Jesus always comes back as a scaled-down adult human in the manner of medieval icon paintings) in progressively less advanced states of decay under the foundations of a football stadium in the suburbs of modern Nazareth.

Respawning events do not follow a clear mathematical pattern but can be discerned by chaotic clattering and rattling noises under the pitch. One such event in 2003 disrupted a game between Maccabi Akhi Nazareth Football Club and Hapoel Acre, causing the ball to hover over the grounds and respond unpredictably to kicks, mildly injuring several players in what was initially believed to be a freak atmospheric event. The pile of skeletons has been inferred from ultrasonic and radar investigation of the site following the incident. Known locally as the "Field of Dreams Incident" in reference to the largely unrelated supernatural Kevin Costner baseball vehicle, the 2003 event is believed to have served as the inspiration for a story arc of the manga Jojo's Bizarre Adventure and a never-filmed sequel to the film National Treasure

[acrossthewavesoftime]

Wait... are you saying that Simcoe was possibly a Bicon, in addition to being a hero of Upper Canada?

That, my friend, I am! Albeit with the usual caveats that there are some things we cannot say for certain.

I think there are hints pointing towards Simcoe having been possibly romantically, or even sexually, inclined towards men as well as women.

Apologies for my tardy reply, but this got a tad long, so please proceed under the cut:

Edward Drewe: "My Dorilas"

The first hint is the poem I was talking about, written by his fellow officer Edward Drewe, whom Simcoe knew since childhood. Drewe wrote the poem as a farewell to Simcoe upon being invalided back home to England early in the Revolutionary War.

For me, the repeated emphasis on the sorrow of parting in elborately dramatic scenes (such as imagining what would happen if Simcoe would die before also returning home, complete with a description of his "mangled corse" [sic, and a bit sick, too]) and particularly the repeated address of Simcoe as "Dorilas" seem to point in that direction.

The lovely and ever helpful @my-deer-friend was able to pinpoint a potential origin for the appellation "Dorilas" from the Tale The Loves of Dorilas and Euanthe, published in the Oxford Magazine in 1774.

Assuming the name is a direct reference to either this particular story or similar stories, due to the personal nature of the poem, my assumption would be that Drewe, complementing Simcoe's Dorilas, cast himself in the role of Euanthe.

This, by the way, is the last paragraph of the story:

"[G]olden shafts" and Venus having "crowned the night when Dorilas the pride of swains enjoyed his beloved Euanthe" does sound quite... Well, they surely weren't just looking at is stamp collection together.

If the appellation "Dorilas" in Drewe's poem indeed does refer to Dorilas and Euanthe, I think that would be a very distinct hint as to how the relationship between Drewe and Simcoe might have looked like.

John André: "an officer whose superior integrity and uncommon ability did honour to his country, and to human nature."

Another man who was very important to Simcoe was John André. They knew each other, and enjoyed spending time together. They were of a similar age and had shared interests. Similarly to André, Simcoe could draw well and was a man not shy of conviviality.

When André was captured, Simcoe approached Clinton submitting a plan for André's rescue which would have included putting his own life on the line that was however refused by Clinton.

Now, I'm perfectly sure I have seen Simcoe's letter to Clinton somewhere, but cannot find it. It seems to exist, too, because the plan to rescue André was also known to Simcoe's biographer, Mary Beacock-Fryer, who makes mention of it, sadly without referencing the original (Beacock-Fryer, Mary: John Graves Simcoe. A Biography, p. 56.).

What I can provide you with however is the assertion, in Simcoe's own words, that he

[...] had given directions that the regiment should immediately be provided with black and white feathers as mourning, for the late Major Andre, an officer whose superior integrity and uncommon abiity did honour to his country, and to human nature. John Graves Simcoe, Journal, p. 152 (1844 reprint).

In his so-called Journal, a work he compiled in order to highlight his own role in the war and political stances which he wrote with the intention to serve as a stepping-stone for his (political) career after his return to civilian life (and half-pay) in England, there are not many hints as to how his relationship with André may have looked like, which, given its nature, makes sense.

He does however highlight, in his Journal and later private letters, how greatly André's death upset him, and allegedly, though I have never found any proof for this, André's self-portrait, drawn at the eve of his execution, was copied by Simcoe's artiscally gifted wife to give to Honora Sneyd, André's former sweetheart.

There are no concrete hints to any relationship in a romantic or sexual sense with André, in any case however, I think it bespeaks their close bond that Simcoe was willing to sacrifice his own life for André, and had the Queen's Rangers add feathers to their hats as a token of respect and rememberance to him.

Mary Anne Burges: Defying Social Expectations

Simcoe was by most accounts a person who was naturally jovial, affectionate and inclined to see the good in everyone; local stories and historical anecdotes about Simcoe highlight his approachable character.

One curious personal relationship was that with Mary Anne Burges, his wife's best friend; the two were a 'package deal', which he knew; legend has it that after she had accepted his proposal, Elizabeth Gwillim, the future Mrs. Simcoe, sent her fiancé to talk to her best friend and promise her that he would never come between them.

How much of this story is true will remain lost to history, but Simcoe had no issues with Burges moving into the vincinity and being a constant visitor. She even became, in the absence of blood-relations, an aunt of sorts to the Simcoe children who would help take care of the four eldest daughters while their parents were away in Upper Canada.

Mary Anne Burges and Elizabeth Simcoe were friends ever since their teenage years and Burges sometimes came to stay with her bestie, who was then living with her maternal aunt Margaret and the latter's husband, Admiral Samuel Graves, whenever her cash-strapped parents considered putting pressure on her to get married already.

Mary Anne Burges remained single for life, carved out a professional existence (albeit an at times precarious one) for herself writing for magazines, had a great interest in the natural sciences and even became a single (foster) mother to an orphaned relation. Here is what she wrote to Elizabeth when a gentleman decided to try his luck with her by way of a surprise proposal:

[...] so I wrote him word that I had more a determination to continue single all my life [...]. Mary Anne Burges to Elizabeth Simcoe, 8 June 1795.

Her refusal to the proposal had nothing to do with the particular gentleman in question; she was simply not interested in men in a romantic or sexual capacity, which she seems to have been very open about. In another letter to her best friend, shortly after the Simcoe's had left for Upper Canada in 1792, she gives an account of a spat between herself and the notoriously quarrelsome Margaret Graves, jealous of the close relationship between her niece and Mary Anne Burges. Margaret Graves mused loudly that friendships between married (Elizabeth Simcoe) and unmarried ladies (Mary Anne Burges) were very improper, because unmarried ladies might ask a married lady about advice regarding her lovers. Mary Anne Burges coldly replied that "[t]hat can easily be overcome by not having any lovers."

Mary Anne Burges remained a trusted friend close with the Simcoe-family for as long as she lived. Given that the Simcoes were very close, and Mary Anne had been around the Graves' house, too, I would guess that Simcoe would have known either from Mary Anne Burges herself or from his wife, that she was resolved not to conform to the common expectations held for women in the day. Despite that, she was allowed a close relationship not only with his wife, but particularly with his children.

To me, Simcoe's relationship with Mary Anne Burges evidences that he was more, for lack of a better word, open-minded than one would expect of an aspiring social climber with politically otherwise conservative leanings in the late 18th century, which may have influenced his view on and willingness to engage in romantic or perhaps even sexual relationships with other men.

Samuel Graves: Simcoe's upbringing

This open-mindedness likely stems from his upbringing between his mother's and his godfather's household. While I sadly know only very little about his mother, I know quite a fair bit about his godfather Samuel Graves.

Graves valued education (and scolded his older brother because he considered his nephews too little educated to successfully make their way in the world), was married to a member of the Bluestocking circle who believed that women should have more legal rights, especially regarding social mobility through education and vocational training as well as allowing married women to hold property in their own name, and allowed Mary Anne Burges to stay in his home whenver she required an escape from her home life.

Even more interesting is that due to a severe case of malaria contracted while serving abroad as a young man, he had grown infertile. He knew this, and was open about it to his family. Taking this into account, his marriages defy the contemporary socio-religious expectations somewhat as they could never produce any offspring; his two marriages were, from the pieces of evidence I have, likely for love.

His second wife, Elizabeth Simcoe's aunt Margaret, née Spinckes, appears to have been firm on never wanting any children of her own due to having watched her sister die in childbirth, which, coupled with her aversion to giving up her substantial fortune to a husband, had kept her from marrying so far; looking at her marriage to Samuel Graves, it seems that she not only trusted him with her property, she was also happy to have sexual relations with him, some light allusions to this apparently very delctable part of married life she left behind in letters.

Conclusion:

It was in this at the second glance rather surprising environment that Simcoe grew up in, and that may have influenced his personal development, and perhaps instilled in him an acceptance of people not conforming to social expectations, which may have influenced his possible relationships with men such as Edward Drewe and perhaps even John André.

Simcoe's acceptance of Mary Anne Burges as a close friend to his wife and daughters (and to himself, too), who by modern terminology would likely fall under the umbrella term "queer", shows that throughout his life, he was accepting of people who, especially regarding personal and potentially sexual relationships, defied social expectations.

How his own relationships with other men may have looked like concretely, and how the people involved would have perceived, termed and described them might sadly be forever lost to history; for a great analysis of terminology and (what we today consider to be) queerness in an 18th century context, I will link this excellent post by @my-deer-friend.

Especially Edward Drewe's potentially sexually underpinned poem may suggest that a relationship going beyond a romantic friendship between him and Simcoe may have existed.

I think that in Simcoe's case, no prior evaluation of his friendships with men of a similar age prior to his marriage has taken place yet because firstly, most scholarship on him was written in the 19th/early 20th century when queer history was, to put it mildly, not exactly a priority, and secondly, because his very happy, monogamous marriage (about which he wrote poetry containing such great lines as "[...] shall my Eliza with true passion burn") and eleven (!) children do not instantly suggest any attraction to other men on his part.

A further, more in-depth analasys would be a desideratum on my part, especially because I believe there is some basis for it meriting further research.