Immortality at Oroville

Hobbling, crawling, shoving, shrieking, the crowd of blacks and whites pushed five policemen into the Mississippi River in their inordinate eagerness to reach John Cudney. For his "miracles" of healing the scrawny, bearded, old Canadian who used to peddle kindling prescribed no medicines, charged no fees.

That was in New Orleans in 1920. Next spring Los Angeles police stopped John Cudney's meetings on "Miracle Hill" because lepers were mixing with the crowds. But his Los Angeles sponsor, Mrs. Ella Farley, had already cleaned up with picture postcards of him at 25-c- each and her brother had cleared $4,000 on the "Miracle Hill" soda pop concession. U. S. postal authorities continued to permit thousands of handkerchiefs to be sent to him for blessing, because he made no charge.

In August 1921 the Event Bureau of Venice, nearby beach resort, built a "Miracle City" for him. The Bureau had to make him quit at 8 o'clock every evening to give its other concessions a chance. One day in September he manipulated the limbs of a longtime rheumatic. Next day she died and John Cudney was arrested for manslaughter. When a jury acquitted him six months later he marched from the courtroom on a path of flowers.

He kept on marching, out of Los Angeles. Seattle had him for a while, and other towns in the Northwest. Four years ago he turned up in Oroville, Calif., an old mining town, a little whiter, a little scrawnier and no longer plain John Cudney. He was now Brother Isaiah, 88th & last incarnation of the prophet Isaiah. On a rocky hillside he built a great ramshackle temple for his collection of handkerchiefs, canes and crutches, a colony of tents for 40-odd followers whom he called "Immortals." "I shall live forever," he told them, "and so shall you if you obey my teachings."

When three of them died Brother Isaiah told the others that the deceased's sins had found them out. Surviving "Immortals"' nodded believingly.

On his Oroville hillside last fortnight Death came, as it must to all men, to Brother Isaiah, 90. Authorities did not discover it until last week. Squatted around his corpse, praying without cease, his 40 "Immortals" waited his resurrection. Authorities looked at the body, decided it had better be buried while there was something still left to bury. Next day in overalls and gingham the "Immortals," who support themselves by farming, chanted a requiem as Brother Isaiah was lowered into the earth. He lay in a plain pine box, his head pointed toward the north, his long, white whiskers flowing over his long, white robe. His followers plowed and harrowed the earth above him, went away to await his second coming.

A few doubters began looking around for a successor. Most of them favored Brother Bolden, onetime president of Los Angeles' Realty Owners Association. But they reckoned without Brother Edward. He emerged from the colony swimming pool one morning, announced that he had seen a vision. The ghost of Brother Isaiah had appeared, said he was still running the colony, would deliver his orders through Brother Edward. Twenty-six "Immortals" bowed to the revelation. Four teen skeptics suspended judgment while a committee visited the grave to look for signs of an upheaval, found the long furrows undisturbed.

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