1

Test Bank for Impact A Guide to Business Communication

Canadian 9th Edition Northey 0134310802 9780134310800
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Chapter 2 Quiz

1. What is the most frequent mistake in business correspondence?

Answer: incorrect or inadequate assessment of the receiver

2. Name the two general purposes in business communication.

Answer: to inform, to persuade

3. List three situations when it is better to write a message than to deliver it orally.
Answer: when a record of the communication is required; when you don’t require an answer; when the
information is complicated or detailed; when it’s difficult to arrange a meeting or telephone conversation

4. What is the main benefit of communicating orally?

Answer: instant reaction from audience

5. What pronoun is the most important in creating reader-based messages?

Answer: “you”

6. What is the fundamental rule of business communication?

Answer: to adopt a courteous tone

7. Which of the following is not a common reason why people in business communicate with others?
a. to ask or give information
b. to advise or recommend
c. to improve a company’s image
d. to foster an atmosphere of deceit
Answer: d

8. Name three things that help to create a conversational writing style:

Answer: avoidance of old-fashioned words and legalisms; use of personal pronouns; use of contractions

9. List three characteristics of a moderately informal tone.

Answer: sounds conversational; avoids archaisms; uses individual names; uses personal pronouns; uses
contractions; uses shorter sentences

10. What is the main problem with slang?

Copyright © 2018 Pearson Canada Inc.

 2

Answer: It is short-lived.

11. List three situations when it is better to deliver a message orally.

Answer: you want to encourage discussion; you need a quick response; you want to foster a personal

Copyright © 2018 Pearson Canada Inc.

 3

relationship; you want to build group rapport; you are dealing with a personal or sensitive matter

12. List three guidelines that should be followed when using electronic communication.
Answer: consider the medium; begin by addressing the recipient; maintain email credibility; be clear

13. What are three advantages to using the most current technological medium?
Answer: ease communication, reduce cost, increase effectiveness when it comes to communication

14. Why should you consider the receiver’s position when writing and sending acorrespondence?
Answer: This will allow you to determine how much detail to include, and the level of formality.

For Questions 15–29 below, rewrite each of the following sentences for maximum clarity, conciseness,
and effectiveness.
Answers will vary.

15. With reference to your request, an extension to your warranty has been arranged.

Copyright © 2018 Pearson Canada Inc.

 4

16. Development of the staffing situation is proceeding quite well.

17. I would request that you finalize this matter as soon as possible.

18. Cleaners who work nights should use the lockers which are located on the fourth floor.

19. Let’s get on the stick and get this dump cleared up.

20. It is thought by the regional managers that this is a line which will be profitable.

21. It was decided by the committee that a decision on the smoking policy would be postponed
nonetheless.

22. We may have to just bite the bullet on this bottom line.

23. His attendance record is an area of concern for management.

24. We were all very pleased and delighted with your enjoyable and worthwhile presentation.

25. In reply to your question I would like to state that remuneration for this position is in the
neighbourhood of $40,307.

26. Despite the small amount of time allowed he received a fair response to our questionnaire.

27. If payment isn’t received soon there will be some very unpleasant consequences.

28. Don’t let this matter drag on without getting back to me.

29. Last week’s meeting was led by Vera Chan.

Copyright © 2018 Pearson Canada Inc.

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The festival
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
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Title: The festival

Author: H. P. Lovecraft

Illustrator: Andrew Brosnatch

Release date: July 18, 2022 [eBook #68553]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Popular Fiction Publishing

Company, 1924

Credits: Roger Frank

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE

FESTIVAL ***
 The Festival
By H. P. Lovecraft
Author of “Dagon,” “The Rats in the Walls,” etc.

“Efficiunt daemones, ut quae non sunt, sic tamen quasi sint,

conspicienda hominibus exhibeant.”—Lactantius.

I was far from home, and the spell of the eastern sea was upon me. In
the twilight I heard it pounding on the rocks, and I knew it lay just over
the hill where the twisting willows writhed against the clearing sky and
the first stars of evening. And because my fathers had called me to the
old town beyond, I pushed on through the shallow, new-fallen snow
along the road that soared lonely up to where Aldebaran twinkled among
the trees; on toward the very ancient town I had never seen but often
dreamed of.
It was the Yuletide, which men call Christmas, though they know in
their hearts it is older than Bethlehem and Babylon, older than Memphis
and mankind. It was the Yuletide, and I had come at last to the ancient
sea town where my people had dwelt and kept festival in the elder time
when festival was forbidden; where also they had commanded their sons
to keep festival once every century, that the memory of primal secrets
might not be forgotten. Mine were an old people, old even when this
land was settled three hundred years before. And they were strange,
because they had come as dark, furtive folk from opiate southern gardens
of orchids, and spoken another tongue before they learnt the tongue of
the blue-eyed fishers. And now they were scattered, and shared only the
rituals of mysteries that none living could understand. I was the only one
who came back that night to the old fishing town as legend bade, for
only the poor and the lonely remember.
Then beyond the hill’s crest I saw Kingsport outspread frostily in the
gloaming; snowy Kingsport with its ancient vanes and steeples,
ridgepoles and chimneypots, wharves and small bridges, willow trees
and graveyards; endless labyrinths of steep, narrow, crooked streets, and
dizzy church-crowned central peak that time durst not touch; ceaseless
mazes of colonial houses piled and scattered at all angles and levels like
a child’s disordered blocks; antiquity hovering on gray wings over
winter-whitened gables and gambrel roofs. And against the rotting
wharves the sea pounded; the secretive, immemorial sea out of which the
people had come in the elder time.
Beside the road at its crest a still higher summit rose, bleak and
windswept, and I saw that it was a burying-ground where black
gravestones stuck ghoulishly through the snow like the decayed
fingernails of a gigantic corpse. The printless road was very lonely, and
sometimes I thought I heard a distant horrible creaking as of a gibbet in
the wind. They had hanged four kinsmen of mine for witchcraft in 1692,
but I did not know just where.
As the road wound down the seaward slope I listened for the merry
sounds of a village at evening, but did not hear them. Then I thought of
the season, and felt that these old Puritan folk might well have Christmas
customs strange to me, and full of silent hearthside prayer. So after that I
did not listen for merriment or look for wayfarers, but kept on down past
the hushed, lighted farmhouses and shadowy stone walls to where the
signs of ancient shops and sea taverns creaked in the salt breeze, and the
grotesque knockers of pillared doorways glistened along deserted,
unpaved lanes in the light of little, curtained windows.
I had seen maps of the town, and knew where to find the home of my
people. It was told that I should be known and welcomed, for village
legend lives long; so I hastened through Back Street to Circle Court, and
across the fresh snow on the one full flagstone pavement in the town, to
where Green Lane leads off behind the Market House. I was glad I had
chosen to walk. The white village had seemed very beautiful from the
hill; and now I was eager to knock at the door of my people, the seventh
house on the left in Green Lane, with an ancient peaked roof and jutting
second story, all built before 1650.
There were lights inside the house when I came upon it, and I saw
from the diamond window-panes that it must have been kept very close
to its antique state. The upper part overhung the narrow, grass-grown
street and nearly met the overhanging part of the house opposite, so that I
was almost in a tunnel, with the low stone doorstep wholly free from
snow. There was no sidewalk, but many houses had high doors reached
by double flights of steps with iron railings. It was an odd scene, and
because I was strange to New England I had never known its like before.
Though it pleased me, I would have relished it better if there had been
footprints in the snow, and people in the streets, and a few windows
without drawn curtains.

When I sounded the archaic iron knocker I was half afraid. Some fear
had been gathering in me, perhaps because of the strangeness of my
heritage, and the bleakness of the evening, and the queerness of the
silence in that aged town of curious customs. And when my knock was
answered I was fully afraid, because I had not heard any footsteps before
the door creaked open. But I was not afraid long, for the gowned,
slippered old man in the doorway had a bland face that reassured me;
and though he made signs that he was dumb, he wrote a quaint and
ancient welcome with the stylus and wax tablet he carried.
He beckoned me into a low, candlelit room with massive exposed
rafters and dark, stiff, sparse furniture of the seventeenth century. The
past was vivid there, for not an attribute was missing. There was a
cavernous fireplace and a spinning-wheel at which a bent old woman in
loose wrapper and deep poke-bonnet sat back toward me, silently
spinning despite the festive season. An infinite dampness seemed upon
the place, and I marveled that no fire should be blazing. The high-backed
settle faced the row of curtained windows at the left, and seemed to be
occupied, though I was not sure. I did not like everything about what I
saw, and felt again the fear I had had. This fear grew stronger from what
had before lessened it, for the more I looked at the old man’s bland face,
the more its very blandness terrified me. The eyes never moved, and the
skin was too like wax. Finally I was sure it was not a face at all, but a
fiendishly cunning mask. But the flabby hands, curiously gloved, wrote
genially on the tablet and told me I must wait a while before I could be
led to the place of festival.
Pointing to a chair, table, and pile of books, the old man now left, the
room; and when I sat down to read I saw that the books were hoary and
moldy, and that they included old Morryster’s wild “Marvels of
Science,” the terrible “Saducismus Triumphatus” of Joseph Glanvil,
published in 1681, the shocking “Daemonolatreia” of Remigius, printed
in 1595 at Lyons, and worst of all, the unmentionable “Necronomicon”
of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred, in Olaus Wormius’ forbidden Latin
translation: a book which I had never seen, but of which I had heard
monstrous things whispered. No one spoke to me, but I could hear the
creaking of signs in the wind outside, and the whir of the wheel as the
bonneted old woman continued her silent spinning, spinning.
I thought the room and the books and the people very morbid and
disquieting, but because an old tradition of my father’s had summoned
me to strange feastings, I resolved to expect queer things. So I tried to
read, and soon became tremblingly absorbed by something I found in
that accursed “Necronomicon”; a thought and a legend too hideous for
sanity or consciousness. But I disliked it when I fancied I heard the
closing of one of the windows that the settle faced, as if it had been
stealthily opened. It had seemed to follow a whirring that was not of the
old woman’s spinning-wheel. This was not much, though, for the old
woman was spinning very hard, and the aged clock had been striking.
After that I lost the feeling that there were persons on the settle, and was
reading intently and shudderingly when the old man came back booted
and dressed in a loose antique costume, and sat down on that very bench,
so that I could not see him. It was certainly nervous waiting, and the
blasphemous book in my hands made it doubly so. When 11 o’clock
struck, however, the old man stood up, glided to a massive carved chest
in a corner, and got two hooded cloaks, one of which he donned, and the
other of which he draped round the old woman, who was ceasing her
monotonous spinning. Then they both started for the outer door; the
woman lamely creeping, and the old man, after picking up the very book
I had been reading, beckoning me as he drew his hood over that
unmoving face or mask.
We went out into the moonless and tortuous network of that incredibly
ancient town; went out as the lights in the curtained windows
disappeared one by one, and the Dog Star leered at the throng of cowled,
cloaked figures that poured silently from every doorway and formed
monstrous processions up this street and that, past the creaking signs and
antediluvian gables, the thatched roofs and the diamond-paned windows;
threading precipitous lanes where decaying houses overlapped and
crumbled together, gliding across open courts and churchyards where the
bobbing lanterns made eldritch drunken constellations.
Amid these hushed throngs I followed my voiceless guides; jostled by
elbows that seemed preternaturally soft, and pressed by chests and
stomachs that seemed abnormally pulpy; but seeing never a face and
hearing never a word. Up, up, up, the eery columns slithered, and I saw
that all the travelers were converging as they flowed near a sort of focus
of crazy alleys at the top of a high hill in the center of the town, where
perched a great white church. I had seen it from the road’s crest when I
looked at Kingsport in the new dusk, and it had made me shiver because
Aldebaran had seemed to balance itself a moment on the ghostly spire.
There was an open space around the church; partly a churchyard with
spectral shafts, and partly a half-paved square swept nearly bare of snow
by the wind, and lined with unwholesomely archaic houses having
peaked roofs and overhanging gables. Death-fires danced over the
tombs, revealing gruesome vistas, though queerly failing to cast any
shadows. Past the churchyard, where there were no houses, I could see
over the hill’s summit and watch the glimmer of stars on the harbor,
though the town was invisible in the dark. Only once in a while a lantern
bobbed horribly through serpentine alleys on its way to overtake the
throng that was now slipping speechlessly into the church.
I waited till the crowd had oozed into the black doorway, and till all
the stragglers had followed. The old man was pulling at my sleeve, but I
was determined to be the last. Then finally I went, the sinister man and
the old spinning woman before me. Crossing the threshold into that
swarming temple of unknown darkness, I turned once to look at the
outside world as the churchyard phosphorescence cast a sickly glow on
the hilltop pavement. And as I did so I shuddered. For though the wind
had not left much snow, a few patches did remain on the path near the
door; and in that fleeting backward look it seemed to my troubled eye
that they bore no mark of passing feet, not even mine.
The church was scarce lighted by all the lanterns that had entered it,
for most of the throng had already vanished. They had streamed up the
aisle between the high white pews to the trapdoor of the vaults which
yawned loathsomely open just before the pulpit, and were now
squirming noiselessly in. I followed dumbly down the footworn steps
and into the dank, suffocating crypt. The tail of that sinuous line of
night-marchers seemed very horrible, and as I saw them wriggling into a
venerable tomb, they seemed more horrible still. Then I noticed that the
tomb’s floor had an aperture down which the throng was sliding, and in a
moment we were all descending an ominous staircase of rough-hewn
stone; a narrow spiral staircase damp and peculiarly odorous, that wound
endlessly down into the bowels of the hill, past monotonous walls of
dripping stone blocks and crumbling mortar. It was a silent, shocking
descent, and I observed after a horrible interval that the walls and steps
were changing in nature, as if chiseled out of the solid rock. What mainly
troubled me was that the myriad footfalls made no sound and set up no
echoes. After more eons of descent I saw some side passages or burrows
leading from unknown recesses of blackness to this shaft of nighted
mystery. Soon they became excessively numerous, like impious
catacombs of nameless menace; and their pungent odor of decay grew
quite unbearable. I knew we must have passed down through the
mountain and beneath the earth of Kingsport itself, and I shivered that a
town should be so aged and maggoty with subterraneous evil.
Then I saw the lurid shimmering of pale light, and heard the insidious
lapping of sunless waters. Again I shivered, for I did not like the things
that the night had brought, and wished bitterly that no forefather had
summoned me to this primal rite. As the steps and the passage grew
broader, I heard another sound, the thin, whining mockery of a feeble
flute; and suddenly there spread out before me the boundless vista of an
inner world—a vast fungous shore litten by a belching column of sick
greenish flame and washed by a wide oily river that flowed from abysses
frightful and unsuspected to join the blackest gulfs of immemorial ocean.

Fainting and gasping, I looked at that unhallowed Erebus of titan

toadstools, leprous fire and slimy water, and saw the cloaked throngs
forming a semicircle around the blazing pillar. It was the Yule-rite, older
than man and fated to survive him; the primal rite of the solstice and of
spring’s promise beyond the snows; the rite of fire and evergreen, light
and music. And in that Stygian grotto I saw them do the rite, and adore
the sick pillar of flame, and throw into the water handfuls gouged out of
the viscous vegetation which glittered green in the chlorotic glare. I saw
this, and I saw something amorphously squatted far away from the light,
piping noisomely on a flute; and as the thing piped I thought I heard
noxious muffled flutterings in the fetid darkness where I could not see.
But what frightened me most was that flaming column; spouting
volcanically from depths profound and inconceivable, casting no
shadows as healthy flame should, and coating the nitrous stone above
with a nasty, venomous verdigris. For in all that seething combustion no
warmth lay, but only the clamminess of death and corruption.
The man who had brought me now squirmed to a point directly beside
the hideous flame, and made stiff ceremonial motions to the semicircle
he faced. At certain stages of the ritual they did groveling obeisance,
especially when he held above his head that abhorrent “Necronomicon”
he had taken with him; and I shared all the obeisances because I had
been summoned to this festival by the writings of my forefathers. Then
the old man made a signal to the half-seen flute-player in the darkness,
which player thereupon changed its feeble drone to a scarce louder drone
in another key; precipitating as it did so a horror unthinkable and
unexpected. At this horror I sank nearly to the lichened earth, transfixed
with a dread not of this nor any world, but only of the mad spaces
between the stars.
Out of the unimaginable blackness beyond the gangrenous glare of
that cold flame, out of the tartarean leagues through which that oily river
rolled uncanny, unheard, and unsuspected, there flopped rhythmically a
horde of tame, trained, hybrid winged things that no sound eye could
ever wholly grasp, or sound brain ever wholly remember. They were not
altogether crows, nor moles, nor buzzards, nor ants, nor vampire bats,
nor decomposed human beings, but something I cannot and must not
recall. They flopped limply along, half with their webbed feet and half
with their membranous wings; and as they reached the throng of
celebrants the cowled figures seized and mounted them, and rode off one
by one along the reaches of that unlighted river, into pits and galleries of
panic where poison springs feed frightful and undiscoverable cataracts.
The old spinning woman had gone with the throng, and the old man
remained only because I had refused when he motioned me to seize an
animal and ride like the rest. I saw when I staggered to my feet that the
amorphous flute-player had rolled out of sight, but that two of the beasts
were patiently standing by. As I hung back, the old man produced his
stylus and tablet and wrote that he was the true deputy of my fathers who
had founded the Yule worship in this ancient place; that it had been
decreed I should come back; and that the most secret mysteries were yet
to be performed. He wrote this in a very ancient hand, and when I still
hesitated he pulled from his loose robe a seal ring and a watch, both with
my family arms, to prove that he was what he said. But it was a hideous
proof, because I knew from old papers that that watch had been buried
with my great-great-great-great-grandfather in 1698.
Presently the old man drew back his hood and pointed to the family
resemblance in his face, but I only shuddered, because I was sure that the
face was merely a devilish waxen mask. The flopping animals were now
scratching restlessly at the lichens, and I saw that the old man was nearly
as restless himself. When one of the things began to waddle and edge
away, he turned quickly to stop it; so that the suddenness of his motion
dislodged the waxen mask from what should have been his head. And
then, because that nightmare’s position barred me from the stone
staircase down which we had come, I flung myself into the oily
underground river that bubbled somewhere to the caves of the sea; flung
myself into that putrescent juice of earth’s inner horrors before the
madness of my screams could bring down upon me all the charnel
legions these pest-gulfs might conceal.

At the hospital they told me I had been found half-frozen in Kingsport

Harbor at dawn, clinging to the drifting spar that accident sent to save
me. They told me I had taken the wrong fork of the hill road the night
before, and fallen over the cliffs at Orange Point—a thing they deducted
from prints found in the snow. There was nothing I could say, because
everything was wrong. Everything was wrong, with the broad window
showing a sea of roofs in which only about one in five was ancient, and
the sound of trolleys and motors in the streets below. They insisted that
this was Kingsport, and I could not deny it.
When I went delirious at hearing that the hospital stood near the old
churchyard on Central Hill, they sent me to St. Mary’s Hospital in
Arkham, where I could have better care. I liked it there, for the doctors
were broadminded, and even lent me their influence in obtaining the
carefully sheltered copy of Alhazred’s objectionable “Necronomicon”
from the library of Miskatonic University. They said something about a
“psychosis,” and agreed that I had better get my harassing obsessions off
my mind.
So I read again that hideous chapter, and shuddered doubly because it
was indeed not new to me. I had seen it before, let footprints tell what
they might; and where it was I had seen it were best forgotten. There was
no one—in waking hours—who could remind me of it; but my dreams
are filled with terror, because of phrases I dare not quote. I dare quote
only one paragraph, put into such English as I can make from the
awkward Low Latin.
“The nethermost caverns,” wrote the mad Arab, “are not for the
fathoming of eyes that see; for their marvels are strange and terrific.
Cursed the ground where dead thoughts live new and oddly bodied, and
evil the mind that is held by no head. Wisely did Ibn Schacabac say that
happy is the tomb where no wizard hath lain, and happy the town at
night whose wizards are all in ashes. For it is of old rumor that the soul
of the devil-bought hastes not from his charnel clay, but fats and instructs
the very worm that gnaws; till out of corruption horrid life springs, and
the dull scavengers of earth wax crafty to vex it and swell monstrous to
plague it. Great holes secretly are digged where earth’s pores ought to
suffice, and things have learnt to walk that ought to crawl.”

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the January 1925 issue of Weird
Tales Magazine.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FESTIVAL
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