The below is another excerpt from Fragrant & Radiant Healing Symphony by Roland Hunt:
“Again, in so-called works of fiction there are to be found beautiful and most vivid descriptions which, in their truth and wealth of detail, speak of authoritative experience, entirely transcending the powers of imagination. Thus the well-known novelist Algernon Blackwood in his Bright Messenger describes the experiences of one who has mingled with the Devas that inhabit the “Nature” Kingdom:
“The stream of life pouring through him became more and more intense; some power of perception seemed growing into white heat within him; transcending the limited senses; becoming incandescent. This tide of sound, inaudible to ordinary ears, was the music which is inseparable from the rhythm that underlies all forms, the music of the world’s manifold activities now pouring in vibrations huge and tiny all around and through him…
“The figure was still definite enough in form indeed, yet at the same time taking the rays into itself as thought it were a body of light. The sunshine filled the air, the space all around him, the entire lawn and garden shone in a sparkling flood of dancing brilliance. It blazed. The figure was merely a portion of this blazing, As a focus, but one of many. And about each focus was the toss and fling of lovely, ever-rising spirals.
“Across the main stream came another pulsing movement, hardly discernible at first, and similar to an underswell that moves the sea against the waves—so that the eye perceives it only when not looking for it. This contrary motion went in numerous, almost countless, directions, within and below its complicated wave-tracery. There were yet other motions, crossing and interlacing at various speeds, until the space about him seemed to whirl with myriad rhythms, yet without the least confusion. These rhythms were of a hundred different magnitudes, from the very tiny to the gigantic, and while the smallest were of a radiant brilliance that made our sunshine pale, the larger ones seemed distant, their light of an intenser quality. These were strangely diffused—these bigger ones—’distant’ was the word that occurred to him, although that inner brilliance which occurs in dreams, the nameless glow that colours mental visions better describes them. Moreover, they wore colours human eyes had never seen, while the smallest rhythms were lit with the familiar colors of the prism…
“He suddenly became conscious of a pattern forming before his eyes, hanging in empty space, shining, soft with light and beauty. It became, he saw, a geometric design. An idea of crystals, frost-forms, a spider’s web hung with glistening dewdrops shot across his memory. The spirals whirled and sang about it.
“this outline, he next perceived, was the focus to which the light, heat, colour, all contributed their particular touch and quality. It glowed now in the centre of the vortex. So overwhelming, however, was the sense of stupendous power involved that, as he phrased it afterwards, it seemed he watched the formation of some mighty sun. It was the whirling of those billion-miled sheets of incandescent fires that attend the birth of a nebula that he watched. The power, at any rate, was gigantic.
“He stood trembling before a revelation that left him lost, shelterless, bereft of any help that his little self might summon—when, suddenly, with an emotion of strange tenderness, he saw the great rhythms become completely dominated by the very smallest of all. The same instant the pattern grew sharply outlined, perfect in every detail, as though the focus of powerful glasses cleared—and the pattern hung a moment exquisitely fashioned in space beneath his eyes before it sank slowly to the ground. It remained in an upright position on the grass at his feet—a daisy, growing in the earth, alive, its tiny delicate face taking the sunlight and the morning wind…
“He could not differentiate the figures from the ever-moving sea of light that filled space wherever he looked. The same play of brilliance shone and glistened everywhere, whirling, ever shifting as in vortices of intricate geometrical designs, dancing, interpenetrating, and with a magnificence of colour that caught his breath away. There were remarkable flashings, and two of these flashings blazed suddenly together forming an immense physiognomy, an expression, rather, as of a mighty face. The same instant there were a hundred of these mighty brilliant visages that pierced through the sea of whirling colour and gazed upon him, close, majestic, with a power and beauty that left thought without a ghost of language to describe them.”
Once again the author describes Dr. Fillery’s contacts with the devas:
“Across the rising upland swept a keen fresh morning wind. Yet bare they were not, this rising upland and this hill. As far as he could see the landscape flowed waist-deep in flowers, whose fragrance lay upon the air; dew trembled, shimmering upon a million petals of blue and gold, of orange, purple, violet; the very atmosphere seemed painted yet vibrant with continuous gentle rhythm as though the actual scenery poured forth its being in spontaneous, natural expression of sound, as well as of form and colour. It was the simplest, happiest music he had ever heard.
“Unable to deal with the rapture of delight that swept upon him, he stood stock still among the blossoms to his waist. Eyes ears, and nostrils were inadequate to report a beauty which, simple though it was, overbore nerves and senses accustomed to a lesser scale. Horizons indeed had lifted, the joy and confidence of fuller life poured in. His own being grew immense, stretched, widened, deepened, till it seemed to include all space. He was everywhere, or rather everything was happening all at once… In place of the heavy suburb lay this garden of primal beauty, while yet, in a sense, the suburb itself remained as well. Only—it had flowered… revealing the subconscious soul the bricks and pavement hid… its potential self had blossomed into loveliness and wonder…
“The sound drew nearer. He was aware of movement. Figures were approaching; they were coming in his direction, coming towards him over the crest of the hill, nearer and nearer; concealed by the forest of tall flowers he watched them come, yet as Presences he perceived them, rather than as figures, already borrowing power from them, as sails borrow from a rising wind. His consciousness expanded marvellously, to let them in.
“Their stature was conveyed to him, chiefly, at first, by the fact that these flowers, though rising to his own waist, did not cover the feet of them, yet that the flowers in the immediate line of their advance still swayed and nodded, as though no weight had lain upon their brilliance. The footsteps were of wind, the figures light as air; they shone; their radiant presences lit the acres. Their own atmosphere, too, came with them, as though the landscape moved and travelled with and in their being, as though the flowers, the natural beauty, emanated from them. The landscape was their atmosphere. They created, brought it with them. It seemed they ‘expressed’ the landscape and ‘were’ the scenery, with all its multitudinous forms.
“They approached with great and easy speed that was not measurable. Over the crest of the living, sunlit hill they poured, with their bulk, their speed, their majest, their sweet brimming joy. He stood motionless watching them, his own joy and worship mastered the final trace of fear.
“Though he perceived these figures first as they topped the skyline, he was aware that great space also stretched behind them, and that this immense perspective was, in some way, appropriate to their appearance. Born of greater space than his ‘mind’ could understand, they flowed towards him across that windy crest and at the same time from infinitely far beyond it. Above the continuous humming sound, he heard their music too, faint but mighty, filling the air with deep vibrations that seemed the natural expression of their joyful beings. Each figure was a chord, yet all combining in a single harmony that had volume without loudness. It seemed to him that their sound, their colour, and movement wove a new pattern upon space, a new outline, form or growth, perhaps a flower, a tree, perhaps a planet… They were creative. They expressed themselves in a million forms.”
Then again Mr. Blackwood makes Dr. Fillery say:
“I hummed again, but this time with my lips closed. The waves of rhythm caught me up and away. I soared and flew and dropped and rose again upon their huge coloured crests. Curtains and sheets of quiet flame in palest gold flared shimmering through the sound, while winds that were full of hurricanes and cyclones swept down to lift the fire and dance with it in spirals. The perfume of great flowers rose. There were flowers everywhere, and stars shone through it all like showers of gold. Ah! I began to remember something. It was flowers and stars as well as human forms they worked to build…”