The Dilettante Society on Ned Ludd

Within our modern world of handy gadgets and technology, creative processes in production can be overlooked. All too often speed and standardisation are favoured over true value and fulfilment, leaving a lingering feeling that something is... missing. The delight that creativity can provide the individual goes deeper than mere pleasurable gratification and is bound deep within the Romantic ideal of freedom and autonomy. It would be folly to long for a time before technology existed, but equity, happiness and fulfilment in life are crucial ideals to work towards. At times, even fight for.

The Luddite movement marked a most dramatic point in British working class history, seeing ordinary folk challenge the conditions forced upon them and taking action of their own design. Their illustrious hero, Ned Ludd, despite being collectively imagined into existence, served as a symbol of the working masses in their plight.

Nineteenth century Britain, in the midst of Industrial Revolution, was in turmoil. As the Napoleonic wars raged, economic upheaval led to food scarcity and high levels of unemployment. Rapid city growth created cramped, unsanitary conditions, and long-held customs surrounding trade, employment and ideology were thrown into disorder.

While largely working to improve standards of living, advancements in technology initially presented more negative implications for the working classes as it did benefit them. At the time, the textile industry was the predominant form of employment for the working classes in Britain, with Nottingham’s lace and hosiery manufacture held in high esteem throughout the world. Traditionally, framework knitters were craftsmen who honed their skills over a seven-year apprenticeship, and as home-based artisans, the trade had favorable measures of autonomy, artistry and dignity inherent within it. But as leaders of industry sought to maximise production and reduce costs, emerging machinery such as new ‘wide’ frames were introduced. These could be operated by unskilled, cheap labourers, and produced inferior quality products to satisfy increasing demand.

Feeling exploited and fearing for their livelihoods, a group of Nottingham framework knitters took matters into their own hands and plotted to sabotage the machines which were threatening to destroy their way of life.

The first attacks were recorded on March 11 1811, when a group of stockingers met under cover of darkness in Arnold to begin a covert campaign against “those hosiers who had rendered themselves the most obnoxious to the workmen”, destroying 63 of the new wide frames which were threatening their livelihoods. Over the following months this amorphous network of disgruntled craftsmen and women saw to it that over a hundred frames were broken across Nottinghamshire, meeting in secret locations - their faces covered to avoid recognition - then dispersing into the night.

As might be expected, the authorities did not take kindly to this action, and promptly began offering substantial rewards for information about the frame-breakers. The initial handbill promising prosecution of those involved drove the frame-breakers underground, only to reemerge seven months later with renewed purpose, better organisation, and a leader. On 4 November 1811, six frames were smashed in Bulwell, and for the first time a name was attached to the threatening letters sent to factory owners. Ned Ludd had arrived and so began a nationwide conspiracy and movement of civil unrest.

The Luddites may have been serious when it came to workers’ rights and protecting their craft, but they weren’t without humour. The name of their illusive leader, rumoured to operate out of Sherwood Forest in homage to Nottingham’s champion of social justice Robin Hood, was itself a tongue in cheek taunt born out of an in-joke within the textile communities.

The story goes that a young apprentice frame knitter from Leicester by the name of Ludd or Ludlam, who wasn’t the brightest spark, upon being told to ‘square his needles’ - adjust the mechanism of his frame loom - took a hammer and smashed the frame in ignorance. As the tale of his foolishness spread, it became customary to blame Ludd for mishaps and machinery breaking by retorting, “Ned Ludd must have done it.”

The pseudonym not only served to maintain anonymity, but would go on to prove that a symbolic leader can be even more effective than an actual one. Appearing in various guises as King, Captain and General, this mysterious leader was soon taking credit for similar attacks occurring throughout the Midlands and the North of England as protests spread from one industrial centre to the next.

The government didn’t catch the ironic intent of the Luddites and were utterly convinced of the existence of General Ludd - a radical mastermind commanding illusive armies throughout the land. Indeed, a private in the Bolton militia reported having spotted General Ludd with “a pike in his hand like a sergeant's halbert”, and so pale a complexion he considered him “not the natural colour.” Various prominent working-class radicals were suspected, but no individual could be identified as the culprit. This use of an unseen but almost omnipresent leader gave the Luddites a sense of unity and ensured their captain would never be caught.

The forces of law and order soon feared a national revolt and a number of military units were employed especially to guard the factories. The penalties for incidents of Luddite behaviour were strengthened and in 1812 the Frame-Breaking Act was passed, making machine breaking an offence punishable by deportation or death. The Luddite groups, however, had been formed in close-knit communities and, upon facing death or permanent deportation for their actions, their clandestine approach and codes of secrecy tightened, with rumours of initiation rituals and secret passwords within the groups.

Desperate for information, the authorities engaged in espionage, paying traitorous workers handsomely to infiltrate these secret groups. At one raid in Westhoughton, Bolton in April 1812, it transpired that those arrested were in fact paid informants and not Luddites, leaving the real perpetrators to return four days later and finish the job unimpeded.

With over ninety death sentences carried out, the Luddite movement began to subside around 1817. The majority of prisoners stayed stoic, refusing to talk and many honouring their cause until death.

The evolution of the word Luddite - today used for those who oppose, avoid or are incompetent towards technology - misrepresents their cause, which protested the undermining of human values rather than the actual use of machines. The need for the Luddite spirit is still highly relevant today as convenience and cost are held high above morality in industries such as food, clothing and cosmetics. The protests of the Luddites should remind us that it is possible to live well with technology, but we must continue to question the way it shapes our lives and what can be lost through progress.

Chant no more your old rhymes about bold Robin Hood,
His feats I but little admire
I will sing the Achievements of General Ludd
Now the Hero of Nottinghamshire
Brave Ludd was to measures of violence unused
Till his sufferings became so severe
That at last to defend his own Interest he rous'd
And for the great work did prepare.

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