IT is interesting to reflect that whereas the British social structure

has been re-arranging itself ever since the Norman Conquest, the

Americans were getting organised only two generations after immigration

control on Staten Island. The grandfather of the Kennedy clan ran a

saloon. The first Astor was a fur dealer who came from Walldorf, in

Germany. The first Guggenheim was a tailor. John D. Rockefeller grew up

on a farm, as did Henry Ford, and the 16-year-old Cornelius Vanderbilt

built his fortune on a little ferry. Nevertheless, they were soon vying

with each other for status. Whether or not one was a member of New

York's magic ''Four Hundred'' -- a list compiled by Ward McAllister, New

York's social leader -- depended entirely on whether one was on the

elite invitation list to balls in ''the'' Mrs Astor's Fifth Avenue

mansion. In those days, being asked to sit next to Mrs Astor on her

throne, a divan on a red silk dais, was the equivalent of meeting the

Queen. Even among the Four Hundred, wives who were ignored often went

home weeping.

Memories of that era were recalled this week with reports that some of

Hollywood's leading stars are boycotting President Clinton's

inauguration because they have not been invited to the ''best''

Washington parties, despite being his supporters. The new President is

taking pains to invite as many ''ordinary''

people as he can, like nurses and fac

tory workers he met on the campaign trail.

In her own day, Mrs Astor stayed regal to the end. She was certainly

not like some US hostesses, who were known to wrap cigars and bread

rolls in $100 bills. If she left early from Box No. 7 at the

Metropolitan Opera, the cast found themselves singing to an empty house.

But she, too, had a strict invitation list. At her final triumph, a

banquet to honour Prince Louis of Battenberg, the Vanderbilts were not

present. She still regarded them as ''trade''.