McPherson weaves mentions of noumena and phenomena and references to Hegel and the Weltgeist deftly into the action (they're rather swallowed up in some over-loquacious passages from the Blarney Stone clergyman). Other literary spirits are abroad too — the structure of the play is basically that of The Cherry Orchard, a wave of disruptive arrivals and painful departures, illuminating underlying tensions and social strife. Audelle is a poor man's Coleridge, shabbily dispensing his "oil of the poppy" to drown his sorrow.

 The troublesome visitors are not so much Hegel's great men channelling the "ruse of reason", as ambitious but deluded strolling fools who can't leave well alone. If the play is a bit overblown, McPherson's ability to merge comedy and misfortune save the day. "Bring me a fitting measure of Our Lord's own tears," demands the housekeeper, not uncommonly in search of alleviating whisky. My companion commented that the flickering candlelight, resentful servants and constant slanging matches reminded her of a rather overwrought ITV mini-drama. It's true: you need to suspend disbelief from the rafters for The Veil.            

But there's something admirable about McPherson's ambition in an era when a lot of young playwrights take easier roads. He may have bitten off a whole lot more than he can chew with the Weltgeist — but the gift of the gab surely is his. You won't see anything like it until German transcendentalism is next in vogue, I assure you.