How like herrings and onions our vices are in the morning after

Hear the voice of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, poet and philosopher of the soul, who once declared: “How like herrings and onions our vices are in the morning after we have committed them.” His words, cloaked in wit, strike deep into the conscience of man. For what he reveals is this: our vices, sweet and tempting in the moment, leave behind a stench most bitter, lingering long after the pleasure has faded. Just as herrings and onions cling to the breath and stomach, so too do guilt and shame cling to the heart once sin has passed.

The meaning of this saying is clear. When desire calls, it often comes dressed as sweetness, as indulgence, as delight. We partake, believing the joy to be pure. Yet when dawn breaks, when clarity returns, the truth is unveiled: what seemed sweet now sits foul within us, heavy, unshakable, and offensive to our very spirit. Coleridge likens this to food whose odor betrays its consumption—vices betray us in the light of day, exposing our weakness and leaving us with the bitterness of regret.

The origin of this wisdom lies not only in Coleridge’s own troubled life, but in the eternal story of mankind. The ancients spoke of it often. In the myths of Greece, the pleasures of the night brought ruin by morning: Paris chose Helen, and so awakened a war that burned Troy. In the Scriptures, Esau sold his birthright for a meal, and the hunger that once drove him was soon forgotten, but the loss endured forever. Always the pattern is the same—momentary indulgence, lasting consequence. Coleridge’s metaphor only paints it in earthy humor, making the lesson unforgettable.

Consider the story of Marcus Antonius, known to us as Mark Antony. In the arms of Cleopatra, he found delight, the intoxicating pleasures of love and luxury. But when morning came—when duty called and Rome demanded his loyalty—he found himself entangled, weakened, unable to return to the path of honor. His dalliance, sweet as it seemed in the moment, lingered like onions on the breath of history, and his name was stained not only by passion but by failure. Thus, Coleridge’s saying is not only poetic—it is prophetic.

The lesson for us is plain: beware of the night-born choices whose fragrance seems pleasing but whose aftertaste is bitter. Ask yourself not only, What joy does this bring me now? but also, What weight will it lay upon me tomorrow? For the true test of action is not the delight of the moment, but the peace of the morning after. The one who is wise considers the harvest before sowing the seed, and so avoids the stench of regret.

Practical actions rise from this truth. Guard your impulses. Before surrendering to pleasure, pause and imagine the dawn: will you awaken with peace or with shame? Choose those joys that leave no foul odor behind—joys born of discipline, of love, of creativity, of kindness. And if you have already fallen, learn the lesson of the morning after; let the bitterness of regret be the medicine that cures you of folly, so you need not taste it again.

And so, child of tomorrow, heed the counsel of Coleridge. Vices are like herrings and onions—sweet when tasted, foul when remembered. Do not be deceived by the fragrance of the feast, for the stench of its aftermath may cling to you long beyond the hour. Seek instead the pure, the noble, the enduring. For the pleasures that shine brightest are those that, even in the morning light, leave the breath of the soul clean, and the heart unburdened.