[Mogu, the Wanderer] is fantastic and full of authentic oriental color. It moves in a world, both physically and psychologically remote, where Fate, though never actually present to the eye, is really the chief actor. It is a world intrinsically democratic where, by Fate's intervention, a beggar and his daughter may serve as lofty a purpose as a king. There Fate makes all, least and greatest, but the puppets of its will. The actors suffer and rejoice, and believe themselves to be acting freely, but he is most wise and content who realizes that he is only the servant of a higher power. To the occidental believer in the power of the will, there is something too humiliating in this belief, an indefinable something too spineless, too resigned and weak. To some, however, the mystic idea of self-immolation is lofty and beautiful. To these, the yielding of will...