A Crooked Plot and a Rebellious Son: Unpacking John Dryden’s Absalom and Achitophel
Introduction: When Poetry Meets Power
Hello, and welcome. If you’ve ever scrolled through social media during an election, watched a late-night comedy show roast a politician, or seen a meme that perfectly captures a political scandal, you already understand the core of John Dryden’s masterpiece, Absalom and Achitophel. It might have been written in 1681, but its DNA is everywhere in our modern political discourse. It’s a poem that’s part biblical epic, part political takedown, and entirely a work of genius.
My name is Sanjay Rathod, and as a postgraduate student wading through Restoration literature, I’ve spent a lot of time with Dryden. At first, I’ll be honest, the poem felt like a dense historical document, tangled up in 17th-century politics I barely understood. But the more I read, the more I realised it’s not just a relic, it’s a masterclass in how to use art as a political weapon.
John Dryden was the dominant literary figure of his age - a poet, playwright, critic, and eventually, the first Poet Laureate of England. He lived through a chaotic period of English history, including a civil war, the execution of a king, and the restoration of the monarchy. He knew first hand how words could build up or tear down a nation. In Absalom and Achitophel, he unleashes the full force of his literary power.
Written in elegant heroic couplets, the poem is a political satire that dives headfirst into one of the most dangerous moments of King Charles II’s reign: the Exclusion Crisis. To do this, Dryden cleverly uses a biblical allegory, retelling the story of King David and his rebellious son Absalom to comment on the real-life political drama unfolding in London.
Why should we care about a 340-year-old poem? Because the strategies Dryden uses - crafting narratives, assassinating character with wit, and using a revered story to legitimise a political stance are the same strategies used by spin doctors, advertisers, and political commentators today. This poem is a blueprint for propaganda, and understanding it helps us become more critical readers of the world around us. So, let’s pull back the curtain on this turbulent period and see how a poet tried to save a kingdom.
The Political Landscape : A Kingdom on the Brink
To really get Absalom and Achitophel, we first need to understand the political tinderbox that was late 17th-century England. It was a time of deep paranoia, religious division, and uncertainty about the future of the monarchy itself. Dryden wasn't just writing a clever poem; he was engaging in a high-stakes battle for public opinion.
The Exclusion Crisis (1679–1681)
The central issue was succession. King Charles II had plenty of illegitimate children, but no legitimate heir with his wife. This meant the crown was set to pass to his younger brother, James, the Duke of York. The problem? James was an open Catholic. For a fiercely Protestant nation that had fought a civil war partly over religious fears, the idea of a Catholic king was terrifying. Many believed it would mean the return of papal authority, persecution of Protestants, and the loss of English liberties.
This fear gave rise to the Whig party, led by the shrewd and ambitious Anthony Ashley Cooper, the 1st Earl of Shaftesbury. The Whigs’ primary goal was to pass an Act of Parliament— the Exclusion Bill— to block James from the throne. Their preferred candidate was Charles’s eldest illegitimate son, James Scott, the Duke of Monmouth. He was young, handsome, charismatic, and— most importantly— Protestant.
Opposing them were the Tories, who supported the king and the principle of hereditary succession. They believed that Parliament had no right to interfere with the 'divine right' of kings, the idea that the monarch was chosen by God and that the line of succession was sacred. John Dryden was their most powerful literary voice.
The Popish Plot (1678)
The crisis was supercharged by the Popish Plot, a fabricated conspiracy that threw the nation into a moral panic. A clergyman named Titus Oates claimed to have uncovered a Jesuit plot to assassinate King Charles II and place his Catholic brother James on the throne. There was no actual plot, but in the intensely anti-Catholic climate, the story spread like wildfire.
It led to a wave of arrests, show trials, and public executions of innocent Catholics. The Popish Plot created an atmosphere of fear and paranoia that the Whigs, under Shaftesbury's leadership, expertly exploited. They used it as evidence that England was in mortal danger and that excluding James was the only way to save the nation. Dryden saw this as dangerous populism, a cynical manipulation of public fear for political gain.
The Aftermath: The Monmouth Rebellion (1685)
Though the Exclusion Bill ultimately failed and Shaftesbury was discredited, the story didn't end there. After Charles II’s death in 1685, his brother James did become King James II. Just a few months later, the Duke of Monmouth, still believing he had a legitimate claim, launched a rebellion to seize the throne. The Monmouth Rebellion was swiftly crushed, and Monmouth himself was executed. It was a tragic and bloody end to the ambitions that Dryden had so carefully dissected in his poem four years earlier.
Dryden wrote Absalom and Achitophel at the height of the Exclusion Crisis, in 1681. His goal was clear: to defend the king, discredit Shaftesbury and the Whigs, and portray the push to make Monmouth king as a dangerous, even sinful, act of rebellion against God’s chosen order.
This might all sound like ancient history, but the core tactics are timeless. Think about how modern political campaigns use fear to motivate voters. An attack ad doesn't just critique an opponent's policy; it often paints them as a threat to your safety, your finances, or your way of life. When cable news channels frame a political debate as a battle for the soul of the nation, they are borrowing from the same playbook as the Whigs and Tories. Dryden’s poem is a powerful reminder that political propaganda has always worked by turning complex issues into simple, emotionally charged narratives of good versus evil. The media may have changed from pamphlets to pixels, but the art of persuasion remains strikingly similar.
Biblical Parallels and Allegory - Old Story, New Fight
One of the most brilliant aspects of Absalom and Achitophel is Dryden’s use of biblical allegory. Instead of attacking his political enemies directly, which could have been dangerous (seditious libel was a serious crime), he mapped the current events onto a well-known story from the Old Testament. This gave his poem a sense of gravity and moral authority while providing a thin veil of protection.
The story comes from the Book of 2 Samuel, chapters 13-19. In it, King David, the beloved ruler of Israel, faces a rebellion led by his own handsome and popular son, Absalom. Absalom is manipulated by Achitophel, a cunning and disloyal counsellor who helps turn the people against the king. It was a story most of Dryden’s readers would have known from church, and the parallels to 1680s England were unmistakable.
Mapping the Allegory
Here’s how the key players line up:
- King David = King Charles II. Both are depicted as powerful but merciful rulers who have been indulgent fathers. David’s sin of adultery with Bathsheba is mirrored in Dryden’s polite reference to Charles II’s many mistresses and illegitimate children. Dryden presents him as a king who rules with divine authority but is initially too patient with his rebellious subjects.
- Absalom = James, Duke of Monmouth. Monmouth was Charles II’s illegitimate but favourite son. Like Absalom, he was famed for his good looks and charm. He won the hearts of the common people, who saw him as a Protestant hero. Dryden portrays him not as an evil figure, but as a weak and ambitious young man easily corrupted by bad advice.
- Achitophel = Anthony Ashley Cooper, 1st Earl of Shaftesbury. This is the most crucial— and most savage— parallel. The biblical Achitophel was David’s trusted advisor before betraying him to join Absalom. Dryden casts Shaftesbury in this role, portraying him as the master manipulator, the whisperer of poison, the brilliant but corrupt politician who orchestrates the entire rebellion out of personal ambition and spite.
- The Jews = The English People. Dryden uses the biblical Israelites to represent the English populace— a group he sees as fickle, easily swayed by charisma and demagoguery, and prone to rebellion.
Allegory as a Political and Literary Strategy
Using this allegory was a masterstroke for several reasons. First, it elevated the political squabble into a timeless moral drama. This wasn't just about the Whigs versus the Tories; it was about loyalty versus betrayal, order versus chaos, and divine will versus human arrogance. By casting Charles II as David— God’s anointed king— Dryden frames the Exclusion Crisis as a rebellion not just against the monarch, but against God himself.
Second, it allowed Dryden to flatter the king while subtly criticising him. For instance, the poem opens by acknowledging David's (and Charles's) sexual indiscretions, but frames them as a sign of his virility and generosity, a forgivable flaw in an otherwise great ruler:
In pious times, ere priestcraft did begin,
Before polygamy was made a sin;
When man on many multiplied his kind,
...
When nature prompted, and no law denied
Promiscuous use of concubine and bride;
Then Israel's monarch after Heaven's own heart,
His vigorous warmth at his meridian height,
Did all the leafy privileges of his reign enjoy.
This is a very clever way of saying, "The king has many mistresses," but dressing it up in biblical language that makes it sound almost noble.
Third, it gave him the perfect cover to launch a devastating attack on Shaftesbury. The portrait of Achitophel is one of the most famous character assassinations in English literature. Dryden describes him as a man of immense talent but utterly lacking a moral compass:
Of these the false Achitophel was first;
A name to all succeeding ages curst:
For close designs and crooked counsels fit;
Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit;
Restless, unfixed in principles and place;
In power unpleased, impatient of disgrace.
By calling him "false Achitophel," Dryden doesn't need to name Shaftesbury. The connection was obvious to every contemporary reader, but it was just indirect enough to be deniable. The allegory allows him to condemn Shaftesbury with the full weight of biblical judgment.
This technique is far from dead. George Orwell’s Animal Farm is perhaps the most famous modern example, using a simple farmyard story to critique the Russian Revolution and Stalinist totalitarianism. When a political cartoon depicts a president as a king or a political rival as a snake, it is using the same allegorical shorthand as Dryden. Memes often work this way too, placing a politician’s face onto a character from a popular film or TV show to make a quick, powerful point about their personality or actions. Allegory remains a potent tool for saying the unsayable and turning a political argument into a powerful story.
Character Studies - A Gallery of Heroes and Villains
Beyond the broad allegory, Dryden’s genius shines brightest in his sharp, insightful, and often ruthless character portraits. He doesn’t just create stand-ins; he builds complex psychological profiles that feel both historically specific and universally human. He uses his poetic skill to celebrate his allies and, more famously, to dismantle his enemies line by line.
Absalom (James, Duke of Monmouth): The Flawed Prince
Dryden's portrayal of Monmouth is surprisingly sympathetic, at least at first. He acknowledges the Duke’s immense popularity and personal charm. He was the people's hero, a Protestant idol, and Dryden captures this allure perfectly:
Whate'er he did was done with so much ease,
In him alone 'twas natural to please;
His motions all accompanied with grace;
And paradise was opened in his face.
This isn't the language of condemnation. It's a portrait of a charismatic figure, almost a tragic hero. Dryden understands that to make his argument effective, he can’t just paint Monmouth as a monster. Instead, he presents him as a good man seduced by the promise of power. He is "unwary, raw, and young," a victim of his own ambition and, most importantly, of Achitophel's manipulation.
Dryden highlights the rumours that Charles had secretly married Monmouth's mother, Lucy Walter, which would have made Monmouth the legitimate heir. This was the cornerstone of the Whig campaign. Dryden shows Achitophel exploiting Monmouth’s desire to believe this story, whispering in his ear and stoking the "popular blaze" of his ambition. Absalom’s sin, in Dryden's view, is allowing his ambition to override his duty to his father and king. He is less a villain and more a beautiful, tragic pawn in a much larger game.
Achitophel (Earl of Shaftesbury): The Great Tempter
If Absalom is the pawn, Achitophel is the master player. Dryden’s portrait of Shaftesbury is a masterpiece of satirical invective. He begins by acknowledging his enemy’s formidable intellect and talent, which makes his critique all the more devastating. This isn't a fool; this is a brilliant mind gone wrong. The famous couplet on his genius and madness is unforgettable:
Great wits are sure to madness near allied,
And thin partitions do their bounds divide.
Dryden accuses Shaftesbury of pure, self-serving ambition. He argues that Shaftesbury’s actions have nothing to do with religion or the good of the people; it's all about his own hunger for power ("In power unpleased, impatient of disgrace"). He is the serpent in the garden, tempting Absalom with the forbidden fruit of the crown. His temptation speech to Absalom is a brilliant piece of psychological manipulation, appealing to his pride, his sense of destiny, and his popularity:
"Auspicious prince, at whose nativity
Some royal planet ruled the southern sky;
Thy longing country's darling and desire;
Their cloudy pillar and their guardian fire:
Their second Moses, whose extended wand
Shall quell the anaks of the promised land."
By having Achitophel use this messianic language, Dryden shows how he twists religion and patriotism to serve his own crooked ends. It’s a stunning portrayal of a political operator who will say or do anything to win. I used to think this portrait was just a brutal, one-sided attack, but now I see the craft in it. By admitting Shaftesbury's "wit" and "sagacity," Dryden makes his moral corruption seem even more profound.
David (King Charles II): The Patient God-King
Dryden's challenge was to portray Charles II— a monarch known for his cynicism, political compromises, and scandalous personal life— as a wise and divinely ordained ruler. He does this by focusing on Charles’s patience and mercy. For most of the poem, David is a passive figure, watching the rebellion grow with a kind of sad forbearance. This leniency is initially presented as a virtue, the mark of a loving father and a gentle king:
His merciful edicts that proclaimed him mild,
His fatherly care, and goodness to his child.
But as the plot thickens, Dryden suggests this mildness might be a weakness. Finally, at the poem’s climax, David awakens to the danger. He delivers a powerful speech that reaffirms his divine right to rule and declares that his patience has its limits. He shifts from being a father to being a king, asserting his authority with the force of a thunderclap:
"Thus long have I, by native mercy swayed,
My wrongs dissembled, my revenge delayed:
...
But justice and religion both persuade,
That kings were made for government, not trade.
...
If my young Samson will pretend a call
To shake the column, let him share the fall."
In this moment, Dryden transforms Charles from a flawed man into an instrument of divine will. The speech is a brilliant piece of Tory propaganda, arguing that a king's first duty is to maintain order, and that mercy must sometimes give way to righteous power.
Zimri (The Duke of Buckingham)
Dryden also takes aim at other members of the opposition, and his short sketch of Zimri, representing George Villiers, 2nd Duke of Buckingham, is a classic of personal satire. Buckingham was a wealthy, eccentric, and politically inconsistent aristocrat, a former friend of Dryden’s who had become an ally of Shaftesbury. Dryden skewers him in just a few lines:
A man so various, that he seem'd to be
Not one, but all mankind's epitome.
Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong;
Was everything by starts, and nothing long;
But, in the course of one revolving moon,
Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon.
This is the literary equivalent of a perfectly aimed dart. It’s funny, vicious, and in just a few couplets, it completely destroys Buckingham’s credibility, painting him as an unstable dilettante. It shows Dryden’s ability to shift from the grand, epic tone used for David and Absalom to a much sharper, wittier style for lesser targets.
Underlying Themes - The Big Ideas at Play
Beneath the political drama and the biblical allegory, Absalom and Achitophel is wrestling with some of the most fundamental questions about society, power, and art. These themes are what lift the poem from a piece of 17th-century propaganda to a work of enduring literature.
1. Politics, Allegory, and Satire: The Poet as Spin Doctor
The entire poem is a case study in the relationship between art and politics. Is Dryden a poet or a propagandist? The honest answer, I think, is that he's both. He is using his immense artistic skill to achieve a very specific political goal: to win public support for the king and the Tory cause. The poem’s very existence is a political act.
Dryden is essentially crafting a narrative. He takes a messy, complex political situation and reframes it as a simple, powerful moral tale. The Whigs aren't just a political party with a different view on succession; they are agents of chaos, disciples of a satanic tempter, and enemies of God's divine plan. The Duke of Monmouth isn't a viable Protestant alternative; he's a naive, tragic boy led astray. This is what effective propaganda does: it replaces complex reality with a compelling story. The poem forces us to ask whether art can ever be truly separate from politics, or whether it is always, in some way, serving an ideology.
2. God, Religion, and the Divine Right of Kings
This is the ideological core of the poem. The entire argument rests on the Tory belief in the divine right of kings. For Dryden, the monarchy is not just a political institution; it is a sacred one, ordained by God to maintain order in a fallen world. The king is God’s representative on earth. Therefore, rebellion against the king is not just treason; it is a sin. It is an attempt to undo God’s own hierarchy.
David’s final speech hammers this point home. He claims his authority comes not from the people, but from God. The rebels, he argues, are trying to "unmake a king" and disrupt the natural, God-given order. This is a direct rebuttal of the Whig ideology, which was developing social contract theory— the idea that a king’s legitimacy comes from the consent of the governed, who have the right to remove a ruler who breaks that contract. Today, when political leaders invoke religion to justify their authority or frame their policies as part of a divine plan, they are tapping into the same powerful idea that Dryden champions in his poem.
3. The Destructive Nature of Ambition
Like many of Shakespeare’s tragedies, Absalom and Achitophel is a cautionary tale about the dangers of unchecked ambition. Achitophel is the ultimate example. He is a man of incredible gifts, but his ambition poisons everything he touches. Dryden presents his desire for power as a kind of disease, a "fiery soul" that "worked out its way" through his "puny body." His ambition leads him to betray his king, manipulate a young man, and bring the entire nation to the brink of civil war.
Absalom’s ambition is of a different sort. It is born of vanity and a desire for popular approval. He loves the cheers of the crowd and starts to believe he deserves the crown. His ambition makes him blind to his duty as a son and a subject. The poem serves as a powerful warning that personal ambition, when it is not guided by morality and duty, is a destructive force that can threaten the stability of an entire society. This is a theme that resonates in any era, from Macbeth to modern political dramas like House of Cards, where we see characters sacrificing their integrity for the sake of power.
4. The Changing Role of Poetry
This is a more subtle theme, and one that particularly interests me as a literature student. In some ways, you could argue that Absalom and Achitophel marks a shift in what poetry was for. The great epics of the past, like Milton’s Paradise Lost (published just over a decade earlier), dealt with cosmic, universal themes of God and humanity. Dryden takes the grand, epic style— the elevated language, the heroic couplets, the sense of immense stakes— and applies it to the messy, immediate world of party politics.
He is using poetry as a tool for public persuasion, much like a modern-day journalist writes an op-ed or a filmmaker produces a political documentary. The poem is both a work of art and a piece of high-level commentary. This instrumental use of poetry might seem like a demotion from the lofty heights of epic, but it also shows the power of literature to intervene in the real world, to shape events as they happen. Dryden proved that a poem could be as mighty as a speech in Parliament or a pamphlet on a London street corner.
Genre and Literary Features - The Art Behind the Attack
What makes Absalom and Achitophel more than just a clever piece of propaganda is the sheer brilliance of its execution. Dryden was a master craftsman, and the poem is a showcase of his technical skill.
The Power of the Heroic Couplet
Dryden wrote the poem in heroic couplets: pairs of rhyming lines in iambic pentameter. This form, with its natural balance and closure, was perfectly suited for his purpose. A couplet allows a poet to set up an idea in the first line and deliver a witty, memorable punch in the second. It creates a feeling of control, order, and authority— the very qualities Dryden was championing in the political sphere.
Think of the famous description of Zimri:
Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong;
Was everything by starts, and nothing long.
The structure is perfectly balanced. The first line makes a claim, and the second line provides the witty, damning explanation. The rhyme of "wrong" and "long" clicks shut like a trap, leaving no room for argument. Throughout the poem, Dryden uses the couplet form to create these concise, epigrammatic statements that are both elegant and devastating. It's a style that sounds reasonable and authoritative even when it is being incredibly biased.
The Model of Verse Satire
The poem is a prime example of formal verse satire. It draws on the classical traditions of Roman satirists like Horace and Juvenal. Like them, Dryden adopts a high moral tone, presenting himself as a defender of virtue and order against corruption and chaos.
But what makes Dryden’s satire so effective is its magnificent blend of tones. He can move seamlessly from the grand, epic style when describing David’s divine authority to the sharp, witty, and almost comic style when eviscerating a figure like Zimri. He uses the language of the Bible to give his argument weight, but he wields it with a surgeon’s precision to cut down his opponents. This combination of biblical gravity and cutting wit is what makes the satire so powerful. It’s not just angry ranting; it’s a controlled, calculated, and artistically brilliant demolition job.
This form of political art is alive and well. When you watch a show like Last Week Tonight with John Oliver, you see a similar technique. The show tackles serious political issues with rigorous research (the epic gravity) but presents the argument through sharp jokes and absurd comparisons (the comic wit). Similarly, the best editorial cartoons don’t just draw a funny picture; they use a simple image to make a profound and often biting political point. And allegorical novels like Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale use a fictional world to satirise and critique contemporary political trends. They are all descendants of the tradition that Dryden so perfectly mastered in Absalom and Achitophel.
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Conclusion: Why Dryden Still Matters
So, after this deep dive into 17th-century politics and poetry, what's the final takeaway? For me, Absalom and Achitophel is essential reading for two reasons.
First, it is a stunning historical document. It offers an unparalleled window into a moment when England stood on the brink of another civil war. It is a primary source written from the heart of the conflict, and it shows us how political battles were fought not just in Parliament, but in the poems, plays, and pamphlets that captured the public imagination.
Second, and more importantly, it is a timeless masterpiece of political persuasion. The poem is a living example of how narrative can be used to shape reality, how character assassination can be elevated to high art, and how even the most divisive political arguments can be framed in language that is beautiful, powerful, and enduring. It reminds us that politics is, and always has been, a battle of stories. The side with the most compelling story often wins.
Reading Absalom and Achitophel today makes us smarter consumers of media and more discerning citizens. It trains us to look for the "Achitophel" in a political debate— the figure who is skilfully manipulating emotions for their own gain. It encourages us to question the heroic narratives presented to us and to look for the complexities and motivations hiding beneath the surface.
The world of 1681 can feel distant, but the struggles for power, the clash of ideologies, and the use of art to fight those battles are as relevant as ever. Dryden’s great poem is not just about a long-dead king and his rebellious son. It’s about the very nature of power itself, and the stories we tell to justify it. It’s a challenge, but one that is well worth the effort.
Works Cited
- Barad, Dilip. Worksheet on Absalom and Achitophel by Dryden. ResearchGate, 2011.
- Dryden, John. Absalom and Achitophel. 1681.
- The Holy Bible, King James Version. 2 Samuel, chapters 13–19.
- Barad, Dilip. “John Dryden: Absalom and Achitophel as a Political Satire.” Virtual E-content and E-resources for literary studies, 2011.
- Britannica, The Editors of Encyclopaedia. “Exclusion Crisis.” Encyclopædia Britannica, 2024.
- Britannica, The Editors of Encyclopaedia. “Popish Plot.” Encyclopædia Britannica, 2024.
- For a good overview lecture, I often find university resources helpful. A search for "Absalom and Achitophel lecture" on YouTube will yield many excellent discussions from academics that break down the poem's context and themes.
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