The United States funded its government for 124 years without an income tax, relying primarily on tariffs (which accounted for 90% of federal revenue from 1789 to 1861), land sales, and excise taxes on alcohol and tobacco. The Whiskey Rebellion of 1794 demonstrated that direct taxation on citizens could spark violent resistance, leading the founders to design the Constitution to make direct taxes impractical through apportionment requirements. The Civil War forced the first income tax in 1861, but it was temporary. The 16th Amendment (1913) permanently established the income tax, fundamentally transforming the relationship between citizens and the state by enabling the modern administrative state and funding programs like Social Security, Medicare, and the interstate highway system.
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America Had No Income Tax Until 1913 — How Was the Government Funded Before That?
Added:Think for a moment about the sheer quiet audacity of what America used to be.
Every spring, a strange and collective anxiety washes over the modern nation.
Millions of people that sit at kitchen tables surrounded by receipts, calculators, and W2 forms trying to prove to a massive centralized bureaucracy that they do not owe the government any more of their hard-earned labor. We take this ritual for granted.
We treat the income tax as if it were a law of physics, an inevitable tax on the human condition as certain as gravity or the rising sun. But there was a time when this entire concept would have sounded like the plot of a dystopian novel to the average American. For the first 124 years of its existence, the United States of America grew from a fragile strip of coastal colonies into a sprawling continental empire, fought global empires, built transcontinental railroads, purchased millions of square miles of land, and maintained a standing military, all without ever taking a single scent from a citizen's paycheck.
To understand how this was possible is to realize that the world we live in today is built on a fundamental rewiring of the relationship between the citizen and the state. Today, the government claims a prior right to your labor. It takes its cut before you even see your paycheck. Operating on the assumption that a portion of your time and effort belongs to the collective. But the founders of America had a radically different starting assumption. They believed that a direct tax on a person's labor was a form of soft servitude. To them, if a government could reach directly into your pockets and demand a percentage of your productivity, you were no longer fully free. This wasn't just a political theory discussed in wood panled libraries. It was a visceral guiding truth that shaped the very architecture of the American Republic.
To truly grasp how the early American government kept the lights on without an income tax, we have to travel back to the chaotic bankrupt aftermath of the Revolutionary War. In 1783, the United States had won its independence on the battlefield, but it was losing the peace on the balance sheet. The young nation was drowning in debt. The Continental Congress had borrowed tens of millions of dollars from French and Dutch bankers as well as wealthy domestic merchants to fund the war against Great Britain.
Under the first Constitution of the United States, known as the Articles of Confederation, the national government was intentionally designed to be weak.
The founders, fresh from fighting a war against a tyrannical king who taxed them without representation, were terrified of creating a centralized monster. So, they made the National Government a beggar. The Continental Congress had the authority to declare war and sign treaties, but it had absolutely no independent power to levy taxes. If the national government needed money to pay off its war debts or maintain a tiny army to protect the frontier, it had to politely ask the states for contributions. This system of requisitions was essentially a voluntary donation system. And as you might expect, the states routinely ignored these requests. Each state was busy dealing with its own local economic crises and printing its own worthless paper currency. The national government was functionally bankrupt, unable to pay even the interest on its foreign loans, and its credit rating on the international stage was non-existent.
This financial paralysis was not just an administrative nuisance. It was an existential threat. European powers like Spain and Great Britain looked at the fractured, broke American states and licked their chops, waiting for the young republic to collapse under the weight of its own economic dysfunction.
Shea's rebellion, an armed uprising of debtridden farmers in Massachusetts, sent a shock wave of fear through the American elite. The realization set in that a government without the power to fund itself, was not a government at all. It was an illusion, a house of cards waiting to be blown away by the first gust of wind. This was the crisis that drove 55 delegates to gather in Philadelphia in the hot summer of 1787.
Their goal was to scrap the Articles of Confederation and write a new blueprint for the nation, the United States Constitution. The debate over how the federal government would fund itself was one of the most contentious of the entire convention. The delegates knew they had to give the new Congress the power to raise revenue, but they were walking a razor- thin tightroppe. If they gave the federal government too much power to tax, the people would reject the constitution and the union would dissolve before it even started.
Their solution was a masterclass in constitutional compromise and deliberate gridlock. In article 1, section 8, they explicitly granted Congress the power to lay and collect taxes, duties, imposts, and excises. But then in section 9, they slipped in a massive constitutional poison pill designed to protect the individual from the direct reach of the federal government. They wrote that no capitation or other direct tax shall be laid unless in proportion to the census.
This concept of aortionment was a near impossible hurdle. It meant that if the federal government wanted to raise money through a direct tax, such as a tax on land, property, or income, it could not simply charge a flat rate to every citizen across the country. Instead, it had to calculate how much money it wanted to raise and then divide that burden among the states strictly based on their populations. If Virginia had 10% of the country's population, Virginia had to pay 10% of the total tax bill, regardless of whether Virginia was incredibly wealthy or deeply impoverished. This made direct taxation absurdly complex and politically radioactive. Imagine a scenario where a poor agricultural state with a large population had to pay the exact same total tax amount as a smaller hyper wealthy industrial state. The tax rate on individual citizens in the poorer state would have to be astronomically higher to meet their state's aortioned quota. The founders knew exactly what they were doing. By forcing direct taxes to be aortioned by population, they made them so impractical, unfair, and difficult to calculate that the federal government would almost never resort to them. They had built a constitutional fortress around the citizens wallet.
[snorts] But this left a massive question mark. If direct taxes were effectively off the table, how was this new government supposed to pay its bills, secure its borders, and pay off its staggering debts? The answer came from the brilliant, polarizing mind of America's first Treasury Secretary, Alexander Hamilton. Hamilton looked at the geopolitical landscape and realized that America had a unique geographical superpower. It was separated from the waring empires of Europe by 3,000 mi of ocean, but it was deeply dependent on international trade. Hamilton's master stroke was the tariff Act of 1789, also known as the Hamilton Tariff. The philosophy behind it was elegant, simple, and politically brilliant.
Instead of sending government agents to knock on the doors of American citizens, count their property, and demand a portion of their income, the government would collect its revenue at the wat's edge. Every time a ship carrying foreign goods, whether it was British wool, French wine, Caribbean sugar, or Chinese tea, pulled into an American harbor, the importer had to pay a customs duty or tariff, to federal collectors stationed at the docks. Because these collectors were concentrated at a relatively small number of major ports like Boston, New York, and Philadelphia, the administrative footprint was tiny. You didn't need a massive invasive bureaucracy or an army of tax investigators. You just needed a few loyal customs officers, a scale, and a ledger. For the average American citizen, this tax was practically invisible. They didn't receive a tax bill at the end of the year. Instead, the cost of the tariff was simply baked into the retail price of the imported goods they bought at their local general store. If they wanted to avoid the tax entirely, they could simply choose not to buy imported products. They could drink local apple cider instead of French wine or wear homespun American cotton instead of British wool. The tax in essence felt voluntary. It was a tax on consumption, not on existence. This invisible system of tariffs became the economic engine of the United States.
From the presidency of George Washington all the way to the eve of the Civil War, tariffs accounted for roughly 90% of all federal revenue. The system was so extraordinarily lucrative that it did not just keep the lights on. It allowed the United States to pay off its revolutionary debts, establish international credit, and fund the rapid expansion of the nation. When Thomas Jefferson purchased the Louisiana territory from Napoleon Bonapart in 1803, doubling the size of the country for $15 million, he didn't raise taxes to pay for it. The purchase was funded by the steady, quiet trickle of tariff revenue coming through American ports.
This tariff-based model created a fascinating lean dynamic for the federal state. Because the government's budget was strictly tied to the volume of international trade, there was a natural built-in limit to how much money it could spend. If the government tried to raise tariff rates too high to squeeze out more money, merchants would simply stop importing goods. Trade would dry up and total revenue would actually plummet. This economic reality acted as a golden handcuff on the federal government. It kept the state small, focused, and out of the daily lives of its citizens. The average American could go their entire life without ever meeting a federal official, seeing a federal building, or paying a single scent directly to the national treasury.
It was a world where the government existed at a distance, quiet and self-sustaining, funded entirely by the global commerce that washed up on its shores. But this elegant, hands-off system of funding a nation through the voluntary commerce at its ports was not a peaceful, friction-free paradise. It was a fragile piece bought and paid for by constant pressure at the geographic and social margins of the expanding empire. The moment the federal government attempted to reach past the shoreline and into the interior of the continent, the delicate illusion of a tax-free existence shattered instantly into violence. Because the truth was tariffs alone could be volatile. If a European war broke out or if a diplomatic dispute blocked American shipping, the Treasury would empty overnight. To safeguard the nation's credit, Alexander Hamilton knew he needed a backup plan, an internal revenue stream that did not rely on foreign ships. And in 1791, he found his target in a commodity that was virtually universal on the American frontier, whiskey. To the sophisticated politicians sitting in the temporary capital of Philadelphia, a small excise tax on distilled spirits seemed like a harmless luxury tax. But to the independent, rugged farmers living west of the Appalachian Mountains, Hamilton's whiskey tax was not a minor inconvenience. It was a direct assault on their survival. In the dense, most roadless forests of western Pennsylvania, Kentucky, and Virginia, transporting bulky crops of corn and rye across the steep mountain passes to eastern markets was economically impossible. The crops would rot in the wagons long before they reached the coast. The solution was simple physics.
Distill the grain into liquid gold. A horse could carry only a few bushels of loose grain, but it could easily transport two kegs of high proof whiskey, which was worth far more and never spoiled. On the frontier, whiskey was not just a drink. It was medicine.
It was a social lubricant. And most importantly, it was currency. In communities where actual gold and silver coins were virtually non-existent, people paid their doctors, their carpenters, and their land leases and gallons of whiskey. When federal tax collectors arrived on the Western frontier demanding that these cash poor farmers pay a tax and hard metallic coin for every gallon they distilled, they were met with immediate visceral fury.
The settlers did not see a legitimate government raising necessary funds. They saw a distant, tyrannical eastern elite, using the same heavy-handed tactics as the British Parliament they had just fought a bloody revolution to escape.
The resistance was swift and brutal. Tax collectors were ambushed on lonely forest roads, stripped naked, covered in boiling tar and feathers, and left tied to trees. The barns of those who complied with the law were burned to the ground by masked night riders. By 1794, the simmering anger boiled over into a full-scale armed insurrection. Thousands of armed frontier rebels gathered near Pittsburgh, flying their own flag and whispering of secession from the United States entirely. The crisis was so severe that President George Washington, fearing the young republic would fracture before it could even walk, took a step that no sitting American president has ever taken since. He nationalized nearly 13,000 militia soldiers and personally rode west at the head of the army to crush the rebellion.
The sheer scale of the federal force intimidated the rebels into scattering without a major battle. But the political damage was done. The frontier had sent a thunderous message to the halls of power. Americans would tolerate a hidden tax on foreign luxury goods at the border, but they would fight to the death before they let a federal agent tax the fruits of their daily labor at home. When Thomas Jefferson swept into the presidency in 1801 on a wave of populist agrarian support, his very first order of business was to completely abolish the hated whiskey tax and all other internal levies. For the next several decades, the federal government retreated to the safety of the coastlines, vowing never again to cross the Appalachian Ridge to demand money from its citizens. Yet, as the nation grew at a breakneck pace, the appetite of the federal government grew with it. If the state was to remain small and funded strictly by tariffs, it needed a massive reliable asset to offset the costs of building a continental infrastructure. And it just so happened that the federal government possessed an asset of almost unimaginable worldaltering scale land.
As the United States expanded westward through a relentless series of treaties, purchases, and military conquests, hundreds of millions of acres of public domain fell under federal control. This territory was not just an empty canvas for future states. It was the ultimate financial reserve. The federal government became the largest real estate developer in human history.
Through a series of highly structured land ordinances, the Treasury turned the wilderness into a systematic machine for generating revenue. Surveyors carve the wild, untamed forests and prairies into neat grid-like townships and sections, which were then auctioned off to eager settlers, speculators, and land companies. Initially, the terms were restrictive, requiring large minimum purchases that only wealthy land syndicates could afford. But over the decades, as the populist demand for cheap land grew, Congress steadily lowered the minimum acreage and the price, eventually settling on a highly accessible $1.25 per acre. The revenue from these land sales was staggering, routinely accounting for 10 to 20% of the federal budget. In the mid 1835, during a wild speculative land boom, the torrent of cash pouring into the Treasury from land sales was so immense that President Andrew Jackson did what no other modern nation has ever done before or since. He paid off the entire national debt down to the very last penny, leaving the United States completely debtree. But this land-based revenue model carried a deep moral stain that the official ledger books tried to ignore. The millions of acres of public domain being sold to finance the American dream were not empty. They were the ancestral homelands of Native American tribes who had lived there for millennia. The massive surges of federal revenue that paid down the national debt and built roads were directly enabled by the forced, often violent removal of these tribes. such as the brutal Cherokee Trail of Tears. The Federal Treasury was in a very real and literal sense being funded by the systematic dispossession of one people to enrich another. Furthermore, the question of what to do with this land, whether to sell it to the highest bidder, to fund the government, or give it away for free to small farmers to promote democratic ideals, became the central explosive political battleground of the 19th century. Southern slaveholders wanted the land sold in large tracks to expand the plantation economy, while northern free soilers wanted it given away in small plots to prevent the spread of slavery. The very land that funded the government was slowly pulling the nation apart. In April of 1861, the fragile compromise that had kept the United States running on tariffs and land sales collapsed into the catastrophic violence of the American Civil War. Almost overnight, the comfortable, low-budget world of the early republic was utterly annihilated. Before the war, the federal government was spending a modest peaceful average of about $170,000 a day. But within months of the firing on Fort Sumpter, the Union military machine was burning through an astronomical $1 million every single day. A figure that would soon climb to over $2.5 million a day as the conflict escalated.
Meanwhile, the reliable stream of tariff revenue plummeted as international trade was disrupted and southern ports were choked off by blockades. The federal government was facing an existential financial abyss. If it could not find a way to raise unprecedented amounts of cash immediately, the Union would collapse from bankruptcy long before it could defeat the Confederacy on the battlefield. Faced with this desperate emergency, President Abraham Lincoln and a frantic Congress did what their revolutionary ancestors had explicitly designed the Constitution to prevent.
They reached directly into the pockets of the American people. On August 5th, 1861, Lincoln signed the Revenue Act, which imposed the very first income tax in the history of the United States. It was a flat 3% tax on all annual incomes over $800. Because the vast majority of Americans at the time were subsistence farmers who earned nowhere near that amount, the tax was highly targeted, affecting only the wealthiest 3% of the population. But the original law was a rushed, desperate draft with almost no physical way to enforce or collect the money. Realizing they needed a far more aggressive and sophisticated system, Congress went back to the drawing board and passed the Landmark Revenue Act of 1862.
This was the true structural birth of the modern tax state. The 1862 act did not just tweak the rates. It introduced the concept of a progressive income tax to America, charging 3% on incomes up to $10,000 and a higher rate of 5% on everything above that. But the income tax was merely the tip of a massive invasive fiscal spear. The law also unleashed an avalanche of excise taxes that spared almost no aspect of daily American life. Suddenly, there were federal taxes on liquor, tobacco, yachts, carriages, billiard tables, playing cards, patent medicines, and even professional licenses for doctors and lawyers. If you bought a train ticket, wrote a check, or advertised in a newspaper, the federal government took a cut. To enforce this unprecedented extraction of wealth, the act created a brand new, highly centralized federal agency, the Office of the Commissioner of Internal Revenue. Armed with a rapidly growing army of thousands of assessors and collectors who operated on a commission basis, this agency penetrated deep into every town and county in the north. It was the ancestral prototype of the modern IRS.
While this massive wartime tax machine raised tens of millions of dollars, it was still not enough to cover the staggering costs of the war, forcing the government to print hundreds of millions of dollars in unbacked paper greenbacks and take on billions in national debt.
Yet throughout this grueling, bloody struggle, there was a universal, solemn promise made by politicians to the public. This income tax is a temporary emergency measure. It is a sacrifice required for the survival of the union, and the moment the rebel armies surrender and peace is restored, the government will pack up its tax forms, dismantle this internal apparatus, and return to the comfortable hands-off era of tariffs and land sales. And for a brief shining moment after the war, it actually looked like they would keep their word. True to their wartime promise, Congress dismantled the emergency income tax in 1872. With the Union preserved and the war debts slowly being managed, the federal government eagerly retreated to its familiar, comfortable fiscal sanctuary. For the next 20 years, the nation returned to its pre-war financial playbook. Once again, the vast machinery of the American state was funded almost exclusively by two primary engines.
customs duties collected at the ports and high excise taxes on alcohol and tobacco, colloquially known as sin taxes. To the average citizen, the intrusive hand of the federal tax man had vanished as quickly as it had appeared. The country was entering a dizzying, transformative era of unprecedented industrial growth. But beneath the glittering surface of this newly christened gilded age, a massive structural crisis was quietly brewing that would make the old ways of funding the government permanently unsustainable. The late 19th century was a period of wild unbridled economic consolidation. It was the age of the great industrial barons, men like John D. Rockefeller, Andrew Carnegie, Cornelius Vanderbilt, and JP Morgan.
Through the creation of massive corporate trusts and monopolies, these titans amassed fortunes of a scale never before seen in human history. They lived in gargantuan European style chateau on Fifth Avenue, sailed on private yachts longer than naval vessels, and wielded more political influence than entire state legislatores.
But while the heights of American wealth reached the stratosphere, the depths of American poverty plunged into a dark urban abyss. Millions of newly arrived immigrants and displaced farmers crowded into squalid disease-ridden city tenementss, working 12-hour days in dangerous factories for pennies with absolutely no safety net to catch them if they were injured or discarded. In this climate of staggering inequality, the traditional tariff system, once celebrated as Hamilton's beautiful, invisible economic engine, was increasingly exposed as a deeply unjust, regressive weapon of class warfare. The math was brutally simple. Because a tariff was a tax on imported goods, its burden fell heaviest on the people who spent every single penny of their income just to survive, the working class. When a poor Midwestern farmer bought a wool coat, a metal plow, or a bag of sugar, the retail price was heavily inflated by federal import tariffs. The wealthy industrialist in New York paid the exact same tariff markup on his goods, but that markup represented a microscopic, invisible fraction of his vast fortune.
Even worse, the tariff had become a corrupt tool of industrial cronyism.
Northern manufacturing conglomerates spent millions of dollars lobbying Congress to keep tariff rates extraordinarily high, not because the government desperately needed the revenue, but because high tariffs artificially priced out foreign competitors. This allowed American monopolies to charge inflated prices to domestic consumers, effectively using the federal tax code to transfer wealth from the pockets of ordinary struggling citizens directly into the vaults of the ultra wealthy. Under the McKinley tariff of 1890, average import duties skyrocketed to an astronomical 50%. The public's patience was wearing thin. From the vast wheat fields of the Great Plains to the smoky coal mines of Pennsylvania, a powerful populist movement began to sweep the nation.
farmers, laborers, and progressive reformers united under a simple revolutionary banner. If the wealthy are reaping the greatest benefits of the American Empire, they must contribute a fair, proportionate share to its maintenance. The cry went out for a permanent peaceime federal income tax specifically targeted at the top of the economic pyramid. In 1894, with the country reeling from a severe economic depression that had left millions unemployed and shuttered hundreds of banks, a coalition of Democrats and populists in Congress successfully passed the Wilson Gorman Tariff Act.
Tucked inside this massive bill was a historic, seemingly modest provision, a flat 2% tax on all annual incomes exceeding $4,000, a sum that only the wealthiest 1% of American households earned at the time. The reaction from the financial elite was immediate apocalyptic panic. They did not see this as a fair redistribution of the tax burden. They saw it as the beginning of a socialist revolution. The wealthy quickly mounted a legal challenge. And in 1895, the issue landed before the Supreme Court in the landmark case of Pollock versus Farmers Loan and Trust Company. The attorneys representing the banking interests argued with theatrical passion, warning the justices that an income tax was was a communistic march that would inevitably lead to a class war. and the destruction of private property. The Supreme Court, dominated by conservative justices with deep roots in the corporate establishment, agreed.
In a highly controversial uh 5 to4 decision, the court ruled that a tax on income derived from property such as rent, interest, and stock dividends was constitutionally a direct tax. And because of this tax made no provision to be aortioned among the states according to their populations as article 1 section 9 of the constitution strictly required the entire income tax was declared null void and unconstitutional.
The Polloc ruling was a stunning victory for the robber barons but it was a catastrophic political blunder. It sent a clear polarizing message to the American public. The wealthiest class in the country was constitutionally protected from paying its fair share of taxes. The disscent among the remaining Supreme Court justices was scathing.
Justice Henry Brown warned that the decision involved nothing less than a surrender of the taxing power to the moneyed class. The outrage across the South and West was white hot. The Democratic Party immediately adopted the income tax as a central pillar of its national platform, framing the Supreme Court not as an impartial defender of the law, but as a shield erected by corrupt elites to protect their fortunes from the democratic will of the people.
But overturning a Supreme Court decision required a monumental, almost impossible feat, a constitutional amendment. For nearly 15 years, the progressive movement tirelessly chipped away at the conservative consensus. The political landscape was shifting beneath the feet of the old guard. Even moderate Republicans began to realize that if they did not allow some form of peaceful economic reform, they might face a violent working-class revolution. The breakthrough arrived in 1909 championed by an unexpected figure, President William Howard Taft. In a strategic political maneuver, Taft proposed the 16th amendment to the Constitution. It was written as a precise surgical strike against the Polloc [snorts] decision, explicitly granting Congress the power to lay and collect taxes on incomes from whatever source derived without aortionment among the several states and without regard to any census or enumeration. For four long years, the amendment crawled through the states, fiercely fought by corporate lobbyists who warned of economic ruin and an invasive, tyrannical federal state. But the progressive momentum was unstoppable. On February 3rd, 1913, Wyoming became the 36th state to ratify the amendment, making the federal income tax a permanent constitutional reality.
Congress wasted no time. Later that year, President Woodrow Wilson signed the Revenue Act of 1913 into law. The initial tax was incredibly gentle. A mere 1% tax on incomes above $3,000 with a graduated sir tax that topped out at 7% for those earning over half a million. Once again, only about 3% of American households made enough money to owe a single dime. But the legal institutional dam had burst. The infrastructure was already in place. The Bureau of Internal Revenue, which had survived for decades by collecting alcohol and tobacco excise taxes, simply stepped into its new massive role. What followed over the next few decades confirmed the wildest fears of the anti-ax conservatives and exceeded the boldest dreams of the progressive reformers. The income tax fundamentally rewired the size, scope, and character of the American state. When the United States entered the First World War in 1917, the federal government did not have to scramble to find emergency funding or rely entirely on volatile trade tariffs. It simply adjusted the dials on the brand new income tax machine. By 1918, the top marginal tax rate was ratcheted up to an astonishing 77%. Although the rates fell during the roaring 20s, the Great Depression and the onset of the Second World War permanently cemented the income tax as the primary life force of the American government. During World War II, the tax base was dramatically expanded to include almost every working American.
To make this massive extraction of wealth palatable and administratively feasible, the government introduced withholding in 1943. Instead of forcing citizens to write a painful giant check to the government once a year on April 15th, employers were legally required to deduct the tax directly from workers paychecks before they ever saw the money. This was the ultimate psychological master stroke. Withholding made the income tax practically invisible. It diffused the pain of taxation into a series of small weekly payroll deductions. It transformed the citizens relationship with the state from one of voluntary transactional interaction at a distance into a continuous automatic relationship where the government holds a permanent prior claim on the fruits of your daily labor.
With this unlimited, flexible revenue stream, the federal government grew from a lean, distant referee into a massive omnipresent administrative state. The income tax funded the New Deal, built the interstate highway system, financed the Cold War, put a man on the moon, and sustained massive social safety nets like Social Security, Medicare, and Medicaid. Today, individual income and payroll taxes make up over 90% of all federal revenue, totaling trillions of dollars a year. Tariffs, which once proudly funded 95% of the entire American empire, have shrunk to a tiny marginal footnote of barely 1.5%.
The world before 1913 was not a flawless libertarian utopia. It was a world where a small government funded by tariffs often ignored the systemic suffering of its people, tolerated brutal child labor, and left the elderly to starve in poverty. But it was also a world where you could live your entire life without ever feeling the hand of a federal tax collector in your pocket. Whether the modern incomefunded state is a triumph of social progress or an overreaching bloated bureaucracy is a question that still fiercely divides American politics today. But to understand how we got here is to realize that the debate over how we fund our government is never just a dry debate about numbers. It is a battle over the ultimate question of human society. Who owns the fruits of your labor? And how much of your freedom are you willing to trade for the promise of collective security?
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