Imagine, if you will, a modern chemistry course taught by Dante Aligheri, the author of The Divine Comedy, a course in which we might learn what it feels like to be an iron atom chained, as though with leg irons, to nearby atoms by ionic forces in a crystal. Now imagine a history course taught by Pythagoras, the Greek geometer, a course, perhaps, on a previously unknown geometry of statecraft. Finally, suppose that these and other courses are merely offered as preparatory to entrance into a real-life version of the Sarastro's priestly academy in Mozart's Magic Flute.
Collin's Theory of Celestial Influence is clearly meant to be read in this spirit.
No doubt, specialists in chemistry and history would as likely be horrified as entranced by this prospect. Not having a PhD in chemistry, Dante would almost certainly get some of the details, and maybe some of the important ones, wrong. Other specialists, their worldview, not to mention livelihood, threatened, would dismiss such a poetic approach as mere superstition.
But the real strength of the present work is that Collin has anticipated all of this. Collin's response (with his italics) to such people is found on page 333:
...[T]he present book is given as a basis for observation. Plausible or implausible, proven or unproven, all theory will remain theory for the reader until he has established or refuted it for himself on the basis of his own personal observation and experience. For neither belief nor disbelief, conviction or skepticism, can ever substitute for this, the only way in which the thesis of a book can affect real life and actual men.
What happens next, then, is up to you, the reader.