Yorkshire’s Luddites: At War with the Future
In 1811 skilled textile workers in Britain attacked factories and factory owners to defend their livelihoods. By the time the Luddite cause hit Yorkshire in 1812, it had become a genuine mass movement.
The term Luddism has entered everyday usage as an expression for hostility to technology and progress, but the original phenomenon was far more nuanced and sophisticated than that. The Luddite disturbances of 1812 were part of a much older tradition of food rioting and political unrest and stemmed also from the precise status of certain forms of skilled labour in English law and society. The precedent for highly skilled craftsmen reacting vigorously, and occasionally violently, in defence of their status and interests dates back at least to the 1563 Statute of Artificers, a body of law that governed much of the market for skilled labour, and perhaps as far back as the Statute of Labourers of 1381. When we consider that the cloth industry had seen large-scale technological innovations going back to the introduction of the watermill in the 13th century it becomes much harder to argue that the Luddites of 1811 and 1812 were motivated by a knee-jerk resentment of technological innovation. Meanwhile the frequent use of cod-legal terminology by 19th-century Luddites reflects the belief that their activities were not only desirable, but somehow ‘right’, or even legal, in the face of the decline in their status and importance.
Eric Hobsbawm drew on this historical context to explain how machine breaking ‘begins, as a serious phenomenon … sometime in the 17th century and continues until roughly 1830’. It seems that machine breakers were motivated by a desire to avoid unemployment and to maintain an existing standard of craftsmanship rather than by simple opposition to technology. When the introduction of new machinery did not ‘disadvantage the workers absolutely’ Hobsbawm found no specific hostility to machines.
Regional variations
A further important factor in properly understanding Luddism is the regional context in which the violence took place. Luddism in the Midlands was the most legalistic incarnation of the movement. The dominant form of textile work in Nottinghamshire was framework knitting and the first recorded instances of Luddism were seen to the northwest of Nottingham in February 1811. These incidents were considerably milder than many of those that followed. Angered by the breakdown of an agreement with industrial hosiers about wages, small groups of workers gained illicit entry to workshops and simply removed jack wires from the knitting frames, often hiding them in local churches. This activity failed to induce concessions from the framework knitters and, after a mass meeting in the centre of Nottingham in March, escalated into regular and violent attacks on machinery throughout the summer of 1811, peaking in late autumn with outbreaks in the centre of Nottingham despite extensive government surveillance and a heavy presence of troops.
It is here that the improbably ubiquitous General Ned Ludd first emerges and where, even when in correspondence with industrialists and magistrates elsewhere in the country, he appears to be based. The designation ‘Ned Ludd’ rapidly emerges in the petitions and letters from the protesters, with the ‘soliciter to General Ludd’ entering into public consciousness in much the same way as the idea of Ludd himself. One document addressed to the Home Office claimed to have originated in ‘Ned Ludd’s Office, Sherwood Forest’.
The Luddite disturbances in Lancashire occurred as a result of a number of long-standing grievances of handloom weavers, many of which were a feature of the increasingly radical climate that took hold across the county in the 1790s. E.P. Thompson identified this as a motivating force behind the development of the movement in the area on the grounds that Lancashire Luddism did not move into any vacuum:
There were already, in Manchester and the larger centres, artisan unions, secret committees of the weavers and some old and new groups of Painite Radicals, with an ebullient Irish fringe. Lancashire was a rich field for spies and provocateurs, not because there was so little, but because there was so much afoot.
The particular pressures felt by Lancashire textile workers originated with the development of power-looms, which, though patented in 1785, only began to enter general use early in the 19th century. It is hardly surprising that the disturbances in Lancashire and nearby generally took place in areas with the highest levels of handloom weavers such as Stockport, Macclesfield, Middleton and Tintwistle.
Yorkshire variant
In contrast Yorkshire Luddism is the most interesting variation of the movement precisely because it emerged so rapidly. Less hierarchical, less legalistic and less organised than the movement in Lancashire and the Midlands, it did not draw on any existing radical movements or long-standing grievances, as was the case elsewhere. There were some similarities with the radical movements that had arisen in Yorkshire since the 1780s and with the legally-justified sense of entitlement felt by many skilled workers in the face of mechanisation, but these were of less importance than their equivalents in other parts of the country.
The woollen cloth industry, particularly cloth dressers (known within Yorkshire as croppers), underpinned Yorkshire Luddism. Their particular grievances arose from the increasing prevalence of shearing frames and gig mills to replace their skilled labour. Luddite disturbances were not recorded in the West Riding until early 1812, with the first major attacks reported in The Leeds Mercury on February 1st as having taken place in Leeds in the final week of January (one frame attacked), New Radford (four frames attacked), Ruddington (two or three frames broken) and nine warp lace frames at Lumby, where residents fearing such an attack patrolled the area until midnight, at which point they returned home before the Luddites struck.
On February 22nd two comparatively sophisticated attacks took place in Huddersfield (where shearing frames belonging to a trader, Joseph Marsh, were destroyed) and on Crosland Moor. In each case the attackers formed into two distinct groups: those who actually attacked the premises and those who took up position in the immediate vicinity to act as watchmen. Nine further attacks were reported over the following month in the Huddersfield vicinity. There were some similarities between these attacks, which took place on just four nights. They were all perpetrated against machinery in homes (or workshops on the same site as the associated private dwelling) and typically involved between four and ten individuals. All the attacks took place at night and all appear to have been premeditated.
The main printed sources of public information about the Yorkshire disturbances were the two Leeds newspapers: The Leeds Mercury and The Leeds Intelligencer. The two journals offered their readers fundamentally different interpretations of events while allocating similar prominence to the movement itself. Indeed the Intelligencer even went so far as attribute much of the blame for the onset of the disturbances to the editorial positions adopted by its rival Mercury. It claimed in an editorial that the Mercury:
... by its weekly Prospectus, is making the most dreadful inroads into the peace, tranquillity, and loyalty of this populous district [the Luddites] are a lawless rabble in a neighbouring county destroying the property of their employers … they are directed to seek redress from Government itself; and in what way a mob will seek redress, has been fatally tried in France!
The public house
Another aspect of Yorkshire Luddism to have been consistently overlooked is the extent to which activity occurred in or around public houses. Although individual examples are routinely mentioned (such as John Booth and Samuel Hartley being taken to the Star Inn after being wounded in the attack on Rawfold’s Mill in April 1812), the prevalence of public houses has been understated. It is important because it suggests that Luddite activity was rooted within local society rather than consisting of those who were obviously criminal, detached from everyday life and breaking machines while disguised.
A particularly significant incident is alleged to have taken place in February 1812 at the Shears Inn (named after one of the main tools used by croppers) in Hightown in which Huddersfield Luddites tried to encourage others in the Spen Valley to join the movement. The meeting is vividly recorded in one of the best surviving regional sources for this period, a work of mainly oral history, The Risings of the Luddites, Chartists and Plug-Drawers, which was published more than 70 years later by Frank Peel, a prominent local historian. In his account Peel brings alive the scale and nature of the meeting which was:
... large, and comprised members of the craft from Cleckheaton, Heckmondwike, Gomersal, Birstall, Mirfield, Brighouse, Elland and more distant places. Had James Lister, the landlord, been aware of the real object of the meeting he would certainly have placed his veto upon it … he prided himself on being above all things a law abiding citizen … responsible in some degree for the good conduct of his neighbours.
The meeting concluded when John Walker, one of the Huddersfield croppers, who
… had for some time been imbibing more of Lister’s strong ale than was good for him, rose from his seat and … cried out in cheery tones … ‘Ah can promise you ’at we Huddersfield chaps will stand by you shoulder to shoulder till these cursed machines ’at are robbing us of our trade are sent flying in a thousand shivers an’ them ’ats made ’em are sent after them … but afore ah sit down ah’ll sing one of ahr Ludd ditties’.
The way this meeting appears to have taken place without the landlord’s knowledge suggests that either the organisation was more sophisticated than alleged, or that Peel’s account is far-fetched.
The obvious question is whether such an extended passage of dialogue, of which no transcript was taken, can be regarded as accurate nearly 70 years after the meeting occurred. However the account remains a perfectly plausible portrayal of the climate in the Spen Valley at the time. The full song appears in Peel’s book, but the first verse alone is worth considering:
Come, cropper lads of high renown,
Who love to drink good ale that’s brown,
And strike each haughty tyrant down,
With hatchet, pike and gun!
Oh, the cropper lads for me,
The gallant lads for me,
Who with lusty stroke,
The shear frames broke,
The cropper lads for me!
The sense of solidarity inherent in these lyrics is borne out in the way the song was received. Peel concludes that ‘the rollicking chorus was eagerly caught up by his delighted audience ... if the object of the singer was to inspire the somewhat downcast and dejected group with some of his own enthusiasm he succeeded admirably’.
Rawfolds Mill
The attack on Rawfolds Mill on April 11th, 1812 was the largest and most important single incident of Luddism in the West Riding. It set in train the chain of events that led to the other iconic event in Yorkshire Luddism, the murder of William Horsfall, and it inspired Charlotte Brontë in shaping much of her 1849 novel Shirley.
Although it is impossible to arrive at a definitive figure, it is generally accepted that between 130 and 150 people were involved in the assault. Those involved came from across Yorkshire, generally in small groups, from Halifax, Liversidge, Huddersfield, Birstall and Cleckheaton. Heavily armed and brandishing stakes, clubs, hammers, axes and firearms, the groups congregated at a local landmark, the ‘Dumb Steeple’, some three miles from the mill sometime after ten o’clock in the evening.
The mill had been erected three years earlier specifically in order to replace skilled craftsmen with water-driven machinery in the finishing of cloth. The owner, William Cartwright, was aware for much of the time he had owned the mill and particularly in the weeks leading up to the attack that he had attracted hostility from sections of the workforce.
Consequently he had taken a series of security precautions in the spring of 1812. By the time of the attack he had been sleeping in the mill for six weeks and on the night in question he had five soldiers from the Cumberland Militia and four of his own workers guarding it, having fortified the mill with strengthened doors, spiked rollers and vitriol ready to be poured over any attackers who gained entry.
The Luddites advanced on Rawfolds, arriving at around half-past midnight on Saturday, April 12th and launching their attack soon after. The attack had a certain structure, with the axe-men unsuccessfully deployed against the reinforced door, prompting cries of ‘Bang up lads’; ‘In with you’; ‘Are you in it?’; and ‘Damn the bell, get to it and silence it.’ During this time the other attackers threw stones and fired at the windows. The troops and workers inside retaliated with an estimated 140 rounds fired at the Luddites in the 20-minute attack. Many were injured, of whom two died from their wounds. The mill was severely damaged, with almost 300 windows broken and the front door weakened beyond repair. However, the attack failed, with the attackers not even gaining entry to the building.
In the days following this incident there was surprisingly little Luddite activity in Yorkshire until the assassination of William Horsfall just over two weeks later. It appears that Horsfall, the owner of Ottiwells Mill, was the only industrialist in the West Riding to be more strongly disliked even than Cartwright. This is why it is so surprising that he was prepared to ride alone across fairly isolated terrain, on a route he was known to use. On the evening of Tuesday April 28th he left the market in Huddersfield shortly after 5pm, riding off from outside the George Hotel. He made a brief visit to the Warren House Inn on the outskirts of the city. Unusually, he didn’t dismount from his horse and instead ordered a measure of rum and water be brought him in the saddle and that two of his workers drinking in the pub be given gin and water.
About an hour later he was shot on the edge of Dungeon Wood, just a few hundred yards from the Warren House Inn. Four men in dark clothing were reported as having discharged three shots at Horsfall, who fell to the ground when his horse bolted after the first shot. Horsfall was seriously injured but still alive at this stage. He cried ‘Murder’ loud enough for a passerby riding a hundred yards behind to hear. This man, a farmer called Parr, along with a second man who arrived at the scene shortly afterwards, tended to the heavily bleeding Horsfall, who was taken back to the Warren House Inn. He did not receive proper medical attention until between eight and nine o’clock that evening, when a surgeon, Mr Houghton, removed two pistol balls from Horsfall’s left thigh. The femoral artery had apparently been damaged. After taking a sedative that night, his condition briefly improved on Wednesday, such that he could provide an account of the attack to one of the Huddersfield magistrates, before succumbing to his wounds in the early hours of Thursday morning.
The trial
The final event in the history of Yorkshire Luddism was the trial of those accused before a special commission in January 1813. The decision to hold a special commission was the culmination of an extensive discussion between the Home Office, government law officers, magistrates and the local military. Indeed the delay in bringing any formal action against the Luddites eventually came to be regarded as dangerous in itself by creating the impression that further crimes could be committed with impunity.
Apart from gathering sufficient evidence against the accused, the key issue in arranging the special commission was the outcome of legal proceedings in other parts of the country affected by Luddism. These were generally held shortly after the episodes of unrest themselves and, in view of the resources the government in London dedicated to countering the movement, were regarded at the time as having produced some excessively lenient sentences.
The Lancashire special commission sat in May 1812 and differed from the later commission at York in that no charges for actual machine breaking were brought. Eight defendants were tried for food riots in Manchester, of whom four were convicted and sentenced to death; six men were tried for arson at Middleton, who were acquitted on the grounds that although they took part in the riot, they could not be specifically linked to the act of arson; 13 defendants faced charges relating to arson on a factory in West Houghton, of whom only four were convicted by the jury, despite the evidence strongly suggesting all were involved; and 15 men were convicted of administering illegal oaths. Along with sundry other cases heard, there were eight death sentences, 17 transportations, seven prison sentences and 20 acquittals.
The Nottingham Luddites had already been on trial by this stage at the ordinary March Assizes under Mr Justice Bayley. Despite Luddism originating in the Midlands, only nine suspects were tried, with only seven convicted and sentenced to transportation, although these were at some charges of frame-breaking. None of the outcomes of these legal proceedings were consistent with the scale of the government response.
When George Mellor, William Thorpe and Thomas Smith appeared before the special commission at York Castle on Wednesday January 6th, 1813 it was to face what would have been recognisable at the time as a conventional murder trial and definitely not a political show trial. The main prosecution witness was Benjamin Walker, the fourth man involved in attacking Horsfall, who struck a deal with the authorities to testify against the three main perpetrators in return for not himself being prosecuted. Other witnesses included the landlord at the Warren House Inn and Parr, the farmer who had been riding behind Horsfall. Their testimonies supported the account of the killing already given. The defence witnesses were confused and chaotic and could not agree with each other, still less rebut the prosecution case. Shortly before nine o’clock that evening the jury returned a guilty verdict, having deliberated for only 20 minutes.
Sentenced to death, the three defendants were executed just 36 hours later on the Friday morning. The hangings took place on a scaffold outside York Castle amid heavy security prompted by fears that Luddite sympathisers might attempt to rescue the condemned men (particularly Mellor, who was seen as something of a folk hero). After briefly praying on the scaffold, the three men were executed without further incident.
The special commission continued. Its other important case was that held against those accused of attacking Rawfords Mill. This was heard on Saturday January 9th. A whole host of prosecution witnesses testified that the attack unfolded along exactly the lines described above. The defence case was again confused and a series of incoherent and implausible alibis given. The jury didn’t even adjourn, instead huddling in the jury box before returning a unanimous guilty verdict against all eight defendants. Few of the other cases heard at the special commission were immediately linked to Luddism, or even to the disturbances of the previous year. A rather unusual mixture of cases, one particularly absurd example was that of ‘John Swallow, John Batley, Joseph Fisher and John Lumb, were charged with burglariously entering the house of Samuel Moxon, of Upper Whitley and stealing therefrom several promissory notes, 12 shillings in silver, and a quantity of butter, on the fourth of July last’ – a date long after any meaningful Luddite disturbances had ceased. Far from earlier concerns about presenting ‘political’ Luddite cases to an ordinary Assize court, it appears as if this special commission was being used to try ‘ordinary’ criminals. Fifteen of those convicted were sentenced to death, of whom 14 were hanged. The executions again took place at York Castle and the condemned men were hanged in two batches of seven on Saturday January 16th, with the first group going to the scaffold singing the Wesleyan hymn ‘Behold the Saviour of Mankind’. That no attempt was made to rescue the condemned men is not surprising: there had been no meaningful Luddite activity since Horsfall’s murder nine months previously.
Luddism in Yorkshire (and elsewhere) has to be seen as something of a curiosity: it spectacularly failed in its goals, yet has gained historical notoriety; it has become synonymous with opposition to new technology, but the technology attacked had been evolving for decades or even centuries, with the most significant barrier to the spread of technology being legislation, not criminality.
The chief motivation for the Luddites attacking machinery was not an objection to the machinery itself but an attempt to protect their own, relatively privileged, status. This resembles some of the earlier guilds and later trade unions in looking to support their own kind, even at the expense of the wider population. Only a tiny proportion of textile workers ever became Luddites and the movement completely failed to halt the spread of technology. This should not be seen as a cause of regret: the new machinery released workers for other parts of Britain’s expanding industrial economy and led to textiles becoming more accessible to ordinary consumers. That Luddism retains such a strong cultural resonance is evidence of the nostalgia that change can provoke and is the greatest success the movement can claim.
