A throne is only a bench covered with velvet.

Hear, O sons and daughters of history, the sober words of Napoleon Bonaparte, conqueror of Europe, crowned emperor by his own hand: “A throne is only a bench covered with velvet.” What power lies in this confession! For it strips away the illusions of splendor, revealing that kingship, empire, and dominion rest not upon divine ornaments or mystical authority, but upon human frailty, as common as wood beneath a cloth. Napoleon, who rose from obscurity to sit upon the highest seat of power, knew better than most that the throne itself is but a symbol, empty without the will, vision, and strength of the one who sits upon it.

What is the throne but an image? It dazzles the eyes of men, drawing reverence and awe. Draped in gold, carved with symbols, adorned with velvet, it seems the seat of gods. Yet Napoleon reminds us that beneath the velvet, it is but a bench—ordinary, fragile, perishable. The throne carries no power of its own; it is the man, the woman, the leader upon it who breathes life into the symbol. Thus, power is not in the furniture of authority, but in the character of the one who bears it.

This truth is a blade against vanity. For how many rulers have worshiped the throne itself, imagining that the velvet transformed them into more than mortal? They sit in splendor but lead in folly, believing the symbol of authority guarantees its substance. But the throne is not greatness—it only magnifies greatness if it is already present within the leader’s heart. Without wisdom, courage, and justice, the velvet covering is nothing but a mask hiding weakness.

Consider the fall of the French monarchy before Napoleon’s rise. Louis XVI sat upon a throne gilded with centuries of tradition, yet the velvet could not shield him from the storms of hunger, corruption, and revolution. The throne, though splendid, crumbled because the man upon it lacked the strength to command the respect of his people. Thus, Napoleon’s words echo with irony: he himself seized the velvet bench of kings, knowing it was no sacred seat, but a stage from which he could project his will.

Or look to Rome, where emperors ruled upon marble seats of honor. Some, like Marcus Aurelius, elevated the throne by their wisdom and restraint, making the symbol noble. Others, like Caligula, disgraced it, proving that no matter how ornate the throne, it cannot sanctify a corrupt soul. The throne is a mirror—it reflects the ruler’s greatness or his shame.

The meaning of Napoleon’s insight is therefore clear: the essence of leadership lies not in the trappings of power but in the strength of character. The throne itself is powerless; it is only wood and velvet. Authority comes not from the bench but from the deeds, vision, and spirit of the leader. To worship the throne is to worship an illusion. To respect the leader is to respect the power of integrity and action.

The lesson, O listeners, is this: do not be blinded by the velvet of titles, positions, or appearances. Judge not a leader by the throne they sit upon, but by the life they live and the burdens they bear. And when power is placed in your hands, remember Napoleon’s warning: the throne will not make you great. Only your actions, your service, and your sacrifices can do that.

Therefore, let your practice be this: strip away illusions, and seek truth. See beyond symbols to substance, beyond velvet to wood. For as Napoleon taught, “A throne is only a bench covered with velvet.” The true glory of leadership lies not in the seat of power, but in the soul of the one who sits upon it.