During the 18th century, machines began to appear that soon changed the way textile work was accomplished.

The width of the cloth that could be woven on a loom was limited by the length of a weaver's arm because the weft thread -- wound on a spool called a "bobbin" -- had to be passed by hand through the warping.  The "flying shuttle" by John Kay (1704-1764?) made this task more efficient.  Kay placed the bobbin inside an elongated smooth wooden casing -- called a shuttle -- that was pointed on both ends.  The shuttle rode on wheels along a grooved track.  By pulling strings attached to the shuttle's ends, the weaver could make it literally "fly" back and forth through the warp threads with ease, no matter how wide the cloth. 

Before the introduction of the flying shuttle, a weaver required the support of about four spinners (often family members) to maintain a full and steady work load.  The flying shuttle sped up the weaving task so much that it could now take as many as sixteen full-time spinners to keep a weaver busy!

For most of human history, the roadblock in textile production has been the spinner.  Anyone who has tried their hand at turning raw fiber into thread can attest that it's not easy automating the spinning process.  Much of a thread's quality depends on a spinster's dexterity and sensitivity to the delicate interplay of fiber and spindle.  But the necessity of employing platoons of hand spinners to keep a weaver supplied with thread motivated the search for a mechanical way to mimic the spinner's art.  The spinning jenny (1764) showed it could be done.  It was first invented by Thomas Highs (or Heyes; b. 1718)--and improved and perfected by James Hargreaves (1720-1778):

The spinning jenny was driven by human effort.  Consequently its output was limited by human strength.  And -- unfortunately -- it did not produce thread sufficiently strong to use for warping a loom.

In 1767, Thomas Highs developed a plan to use rollers to guide and stretch out the fiber before it was twisted.  This important improvement may have been appropriated by the itinerant barber, wigmaker and opportunist, Richard Arkwright (1732-1792), in designing the spinning machine attributed to him -- the "water frame" -- and for which he obtained a patent in 1769.  Thread produced by the "water frame" was strong enough to be used as warp or weft.  And, because the machine was designed to be driven by a waterwheel, horse, or other non-human power source, it opened up the possibility of building and operating larger and more productive spinning machines.

As soon as thread could be spun by machines in large quantities, the bottleneck in textile production shifted from spinners to the weavers. 

Edmund Cartwright (1743-1823) was an English clergyman.  He had never seen a handloom or a weaver at work, but he had heard of remarkable automatons like the chess-playing Turk created by the French inventor Jacques de Vaucanson (1709-1782).  If Vaucanson could successfully reduce so many complex movements into a mechanical routine, then, Cartwright believed, it should be possible to devise a way to automate the production of cloth, a process he conceived as based on a sequence of three simple repetitive actions:
 

(1) shedding (separating and lifting selected warp threads)

Warp threads (red and blue) seen on a simple handloom.

Lifting alternating threads (the red ones) to create a "shed" -- a tunnel-like space between the warp threads.

The "shed" as seen from the side.
 

(2) picking or filling (passing the weft thread through the shed)

The weft thread (shown in green) is often carried on a shuttle.  When the shuttle moves through the shed, the weft thread passes over the blue warp threads and under the red warp threads.

Picking or filling the weft thread as seen from the side.
 

(3) beating-up (pressing the weft thread into the "fell" -- the cloth on the loom that has already been woven -- using a "reed" -- a comb-like tool -- to set the weft thread securely in place).

The weft thread in place after the reed has beaten it into the fell.
 

The process can then be started all over again, this time by lifting the blue threads, passing the weft thread through the resulting shed in the opposite direction, and beating it into place.
 

In 1784, Cartwright devised his first mechanical loom. 

His machine was able to produce a piece of cloth, but it proved impractical to use compared to a regular handloom.  Instead of employing one weaver, Cartwright's "power loom" required two strong men to operate and it took more time to weave the same amount of cloth.

Determined to improve his machine, Cartwright learned how real weavers and handlooms actually worked.  In 1785, he patented a new design.

Cartwright continued to make improvements and, in 1787, began using steam power instead of animals to run his looms.  He might have made a commercial success out of the sale of his looms, but textile manufacturers became wary of installing the machines after a mill, in which hundreds of Cartwright's looms were being installed, was destroyed by fire in 1790.  The fire was probably purposely set by textile workers who saw the power loom as a threat to their livelihood.  The owner did not rebuild.  In 1793, Cartwright was forced to declare bankruptcy.
 

What came to be called the Luddite riots began on the heels of two straight years of bad harvests.  The price of wheat had risen by over 50% in London and nearly 90% in northern England.  A fully employed stockinger might earn 7 to 14 shillings 6 pence per week; a handloom weaver, 9-12 shillings per week.  Daily bread could cost up to 1 shilling 8 pence, or (assuming one purchased bread every day) 11 shillings 8 pence per week!

In February 1811 at Arnold--a small town near Nottingham where fabric for "cut-ups" was being knitted on wide stocking frames--stockingers broke into hosiers' workshops and disabled their frames by removing the jack-wires.

After a second riot in Arnold, military troops arrived in early April to quell the disturbance, but by then over 200 frames had been destroyed.

In November, in the wake of another disastrous harvest, a new outbreak occurred, this time in the nearby village of Bulwell.  It was here that the name Ned Ludd was first heard.  Perpetrators acted in small bands, striking particular targets and garnering the support of local stockingers and residents.  Those whose financial backing could not be won over by sympathy, were "encouraged" through intimidation:

Gentlemen all.  Ned Ludd's Compliments and hopes you wil give a trifle towards supporting his Army as he well understands the Art of breaking obnoxious Frames.  If you comply with this it will be well, if not I shall call upon you myself.

--Edward Ludd

Local authorities summoned more troops and swore in new constables.  In December, a force of 2,000 men was sent.  Meetings were held between representatives of hosiers and stockingers to settle their differences.  And although no formal agreement was reached, some hosiers found it expedient to abandon cut-ups and to pay higher wages.  Nevertheless, cases of frame breaking in the region around Nottingham continued at rate of 200 frames per month through February 1812, when Parliament adopted the Frame-Breaking Bill, which made the destructive action a crime punishable by death.

Just as things seemed to be calming down in the Nottingham area, new disturbances erupted in Lancashire, Cheshire, and Yorkshire.

The Yorkshire moors were the center of the cropping, or shearing, branch of the woolen industry.

Croppers worked in small collectives to finish newly woven cloth by raising its nap and then shearing it -- time-consuming jobs that had always been done by hand.  In fact, croppers reacted positively when clothiers began purchasing labor-saving devices -- first the gig-mill for nap raising...

and then the automated shearing machine.

But in troubled economic times, as work became scarce, croppers resorted to machine breaking to protect their livelihood.

The area around Huddersfield, a town about 15 miles southwest of Leeds, witnessed the eruption of Luddite-related violence:
 

There were minor outbursts of machine breaking in the summer and fall of 1814 and 1816, but more and more often, the damage done was found to be the work of mercenary gangs, not cadres of oppressed workers.  Between 1806 and 1817, the number of gig-mills in Yorkshire increased from 5 to 72.  Eventually, the craft of nap raising disappeared.  Stockingers realized the futility of insisting on the abolition of cut-ups.  Realizing that goal would have severely damaged the textile industry at its one growing point and contributed nothing towards raising wages.